Batman: Gotham High
by CJ1145
Summary: Barbara Gordon has grown used to the despair of living in the hell of Gotham, and surviving the horrors of her peers at Gotham High. But the arrival of a long-lost friend stirs a revolution, both in Gotham and in Barbara herself. First fic, please rate!
1. Chapter 1

"Rise and shine, kid."

A ray of pale sunlight peeked into a cluttered room as the blinds over a window were yanked away. The darkness dispersed and revealed a rather tragic scene; Within twelve square feet of space a library's worth of books were scattered and sprawled in impossible locations, thrown about as if by a mad bull had gone through the room. A small bed in the corner was barely visible underneath the mountain of refuse that had piled up over several days. In the adjacent corner was a rickety wooden desk that was struggling to stand under the combined weight of a dozen half-read books and one sleeping girl. A rumbling snore erupted from her throat, disrupting the careful balance of the chaos around her, and the mountains collapsed in avalanches of crumbling paper.

The girl awoke with a yelp as a dictionary smacked her directly in the face, in the most rude manner that a book as dignified as a dictionary could possibly accomplish. She turned and looked around at the mess frantically beneath a tangle of uncombed red hair, before her erratic breathing slowed. Fully aware of where she was now, she looked up at the man standing in her doorway, whom she at once recognized as her father. The squared jaw, and heavily lined face could belong to no one else, and she had never seen anyone else's hair that shade of gray at the age of 38.

"Barbara, first day of school, remember?" Her father gently reminded her. "Get dressed and come get your breakfast, I'll give you a ride down before I head to station."

He turned around and shut the door behind him, yanking it hard to release it from the deadly grip of a bloated criminal records file she had borrowed from him. He was a Lieutenant of the Gotham Police Department, and Barbara took full advantage of the inside knowledge of the working's of Gotham's law enforcement he could give her. Normally, the information she was given would land both her and her father in jail; but the GPD could hardly be called an orthodox department, and by no stretch of the imagination an honest one.

With a little careful maneuvering, Barbara avoiding another catastrophe like the one that woke her, and made her way to her closet door. She pulled it open, only to find herself face to face with another pile of books, now tilting in her direction.

"Oh no."

That was all the girl could say before a torrential downpour of encyclopedias and overdue library books engulfed her. With a hint of shame, a hand wriggled out of the pile and pulled a shirt and a new pair of jeans from the closet before she burst free, shoving as much junk into the closet space as possible before shutting the door.

She dressed quickly, and only gave a few careless brushes to her hair before heading out the door into her hallway. A dark and gray place in the mornings, when no doors were open to let sunlight in. A scattered few family photos were on the wall, depicting a younger Barbara and two happy parents smiling at the camera, blissfully unaware of the hellhole that they lived in for that one brief moment. She couldn't help but smile when she looked at those frozen memories; she remembered how naïve she was back then. When she was a child, the police were shining paragons of justice, heroes that fought against villainy all over Gotham to keep them safe. But as she grew, she became acutely aware of how wrong that assessment was. Nowhere in Gotham was safe from criminals, whether the police were there or not. But the hardest lesson she had learned was that things weren't black and white. Villains weren't all nasty, unpleasant people. They had families, and lives they were just fighting to keep. And the GPD were no heroes. As far as she was concerned, there were no heroes anywhere in Gotham City.

"Barbara, are you coming?" Her father shouted at her from downstairs. She realized that she had probably been reminiscing for quite some time, and scurried down to the lower level of her home, which was at the least a little brighter in the mornings.

All the rooms were empty, and felt dead at the moment; all excluding the kitchen. There her father was diligently preparing a modest breakfast for her, bacon sizzling on a stovetop as he buttered two pieces of toast. A paper sack was waiting on the countertop of the crowded room, already containing her lunch for the day. Barbara silently accepted it and put it inside her bag, then leaned against a wall and waited for her father to say something.

After a minute or two it became apparent that if a conversation was to take place, it would not be her dad starting it. So, she thought of a topic herself.

"Where's mom?" she asked in a rather indifferent tone. This was because she was already fully aware of what her mother did in the mornings, but she could not think of a better thing to discuss. Nonetheless her father humored the attempt.

"Grocery shopping." He told her, not taking his eyes off of the toast as he set it down on a plate. He moved onto the bacon, grabbing a spatula and flipping two pieces next to the toast before removing it from the small bit of open counter space and placing it on the table for her. "We're out of wheat bread. All we've got is pumpernickel."

Barbara stared at the toast with a mixture of confusion and horror. Untoasted pumpernickel was something she did not dare touch, and this left her utterly dumbfounded about what to do with it in its toasted form. She carefully took a small bite, and for a moment contemplated that it was far better than she expected. In that short moment, however, her taste buds remembered that they were on duty that day and resumed their work. It took all of Barbara's concentration not to spit the fruits of her father's labor all over the kitchen floor. Her hand shot with abandon and grabbed a piece of bacon; she shoved it in her mouth to counter the awful taste of burnt pumpernickel.

By some luck her father had not noticed, and by now had made a plate for himself, curiously lacking in toast, and had sat himself down at the table. Barbara did the same, sitting across the table from him. Her father was always quiet in the mornings, only speaking when he needed to, but today he seemed more solemn than usual. After a few minutes of heavy silence, she decided that she needed to ask what was wrong.

"So, uh, dad…" she began. His eyes slowly rose from his meal to meet hers. She remembered that they had once been a bright, clear blue; nowadays they seemed to be more of a storm cloud hue. "Aren't you usually at the station by now on Mondays?"

"It's a slow day, they don't need me there until the afternoon." He replied, before taking another bite of bacon. Barbara knew he was lying to her; there was never a slow day for the police in Gotham.

"Dad, is there something you're not telling me?" She asked, making sure to add enough concern to her voice to sway her father into confessing. He sighed, and rubbed the creases on his forehead.

"The Commissioner told me to take a couple days off." He said. "Says I've been working too hard, the others can pick up the slack."

"But that's crazy." Barbara observed, risking another bite of toast. Luckily, with the shock of it gone it proved a little more bearable. "You're the only honest cop in your department, they need you there."

"Exactly." Her father told her. "There was an arson case I was working on, and I'm pretty sure it's part of a bigger crime spree; I was this close to getting a prime suspect," he explained, bringing his left index finger and thumb so close it was almost impossible to spot the split. "but then this happened. I think the Commissioner doesn't want me finding out who did it."

Barbara frowned, staring down at her meal. Her father spotted the unhappy expression, and groaned at his own mistake. "I shouldn't have told you any of this, you'll just be worrying all day now. Honestly, Barbara, you don't have anything to be concerned about. Come on, I'll give you a ride down to the school."

He stood up from the table, not bothering to pick up the dishes before making for the door. Barbara grabbed her unfinished bacon and took a quick bite as she dashed out the door after him.


	2. Chapter 2

The streets of Gotham were soaked from rainfall the night before, and the dim gray color of the sky suggested a new shower was on the way. The streets seemed abandoned, only a few ghosts haunting the street corners; already they held umbrellas in hand, anticipating the precipitation looming above. Barbara sat in the passenger seat of her father's car, an unassuming white sedan. Her eyes, glazed over with boredom watched the people pass by.

Up ahead, a traffic light glared at them with a yellow warning light. A gentle press of the brake brought the car to a halt alongside the street corner, giving Barbara a view of a curious-looking man leaning against a light pole. Her eyes began to re-focus as she looked at him. The man, or rather, boy couldn't have been much older than her, and yet something about him seemed ancient. He possessed a certain quality that she could not put her finger on that suggested he had seen far more than others his age. Neatly combed black hair framed a pair of pale blue eyes that seemed unsettlingly familiar.

Just as something like a memory began to form in her mind, the red light turned green, and her father sped away. She turned to him ready to shout at him, but she saw that he hadn't been paying attention. His eyes were focused on the road.

"Dad, did the boy on that corner seem familiar?"

"What boy? I don't see anyone in the mirror."

Disbelieving of what her father said, Barbara rolled down the window and looked behind her. Just as he had said, the street corner was now vacant, and the boy was nowhere in sight. She leaned back into her seat and rubbed her eyes, suddenly suspicious of them. It only took a moment to convince herself that she'd just imagined seeing the boy; she was probably just caught up in a memory about some long-forgotten relative.

But even after that, a bit of doubt ate at the back of her mind. Those eyes seemed so familiar, and yet entirely strange.

"Barbara? We're here."

She was snapped out of yet another trance as she tried to get her bearings. Directly in front of their car was an engraved stone tablet with bold, large letters carved into it.

"GOTHAM HIGH"

"EST. 1849"

This would be her second year going to this school. She'd been so caught up in her thoughts through the morning she had forgotten how much she hated the place during freshman year. Gotham City was a strange place, that bred strange people; and those strange people bred even stranger ones, whom Barbara was unfortunate enough to share a graduating class with. Even now she saw a drove of students piling in through the front doors, with more pulling up in cars and buses with every minute.

"You'd better get going, or you'll be late." Her father reminded her. She nodded and gave him a kiss on the cheek before stepping out of the car. Before she could walk away, the passenger side window rolled down. "Have a good day at school, kid. Need a ride home?"

Barbara shook her head as she walked away. "No thanks, Dad," she said. "I'll take the bus."

She stepped up onto the sidewalk, and slowly made her way up to the steps leading to the entryway. Raindrops were beginning to fall, hastening the crowd of people inside. She saw a trio of senior boys pass in front of her, all sporting skull-emblazoned bandanas on various parts of their body. A pit in her stomach made itself known as she began to think of just how dangerous it was to be the daughter of the only honest cop in Gotham in a school with more criminals than innocents.

Her eyes remained on them for a few moments longer, just long enough for her to crash head-on into someone walking up to the stairway. A high-pitched squeal whistled in the air, but not from Barbara. She found herself sprawled over an extremely tiny boy scrambling to get free. Barbara felt her face heat up and go red in embarrassment, and she shot to her feet, leaving the boy to pick himself up. He was at best five feet tall, and very thin, even for his small size. His skin was pale, and his eyes were practically invisible underneath his thick glasses, reflecting the rising sun into Barbara's eyes. His hair was carrot orange, and a cowlick shot off the side, marring the otherwise meticulously groomed style of it. The boy himself started muttering some words she couldn't make out, but as soon as he looked at who had bumped into him his jaw went slack. A buffoonish stammering that might have made sense in his head stumbled out of his mouth, and confused Barbara to no end. She hoped maybe saying something would convince him to use words.

"Uh… hi. I'm Barbara Gordon." She said, sticking out a hand. "I don't think I've seen you around here, are you new?"

"Huh?" the boy asked, disbelieving that she was actually speaking to him. "Oh, yes, I am!" He grabbed her hand with both of his and shook it enthusiastically, but he did little to make her arm move. He was as lacking in upper body strength as he appeared to be. "My name is Eddie Nashton, I-I just moved here!" He said, a grin steadily creeping onto his face.

"Oh, ok." Barbara said. People passing by gave stares that only a fool would be so kind as to call 'mocking', causing her to realize just how odd the boy she was talking to was. He looked like he had more to say; thinking quickly, Barbara acted.

"I think I hear the bell." she said quickly. She gave a quick wave goodbye and dashed up the stairs. Behind her she could hear the boy, Eddie, asking if maybe they could talk more during lunch. She decided to pretend she didn't hear him, and pushed open the door into the hallway. At that precise moment the approaching storm kicked into full gear, and a sound of thunder rang down the halls of the school. Everyone stopped what they were doing to look around for a moment; this sound had been particularly loud, even for thunder. The halls of Gotham High had a curious effect of amplifying sounds whenever it was most inappropriate to do so.

The floor had clearly been cleaned and waxed just that morning, but already mud and water had been tracked onto the white and green tile. No amount of soap could save the walls, which were forever stained an odd mixture of lemon and lime colorings, though, the multitudes of posters adorning every open space distracted from that. Clubs, upcoming events, and even a few early starts at political posturing painted the walls of Gotham High with a vibrant image; far too saccharine to be anywhere near reality, Barbara thought.

She walked down the hallway directly in front of her; her homeroom was close to the entrance, and her locker was only around the corner, if she recalled. All around her the hallways were swarming with activity. A few would-be cheerleaders gushed about the hopes of the upcoming year, while down the hall a pair of stoners made plans to meet at the pizza place down the street for lunch. Barbara had no interest in their conversations, yet at the same time she picked up on those little bits of information easily. It was tempting to just go about her business all day, building up a store of potential blackmail on anyone whom she held a grudge against.

The lockers proceeded down the hall, their green-painted metal blending into the appearance of the hallway, both freshly cleaned and deeply stained. The number 304 caught her eye. That one was hers. She flipped up the handle and let the door swing open, and embraced the smell of dead rats and ancient books that wafted out. She brought her hand up to her shoulder to remove her bag, but felt nothing but her shirt.

Barbara's eyes rolled back into her head as she buried her face in the palms of her hands. She'd forgotten it in her father's car.

"Looking for this?"

The hairs on the back of her neck stood up, and she jumped a bit in fright at the unfamiliar voice behind her. She turned around and found herself staring at the boy from the street corner earlier.

His clothes, a plain t-shirt and jeans, were soaked by the rain, and his black hair had been disheveled by his attempt to dry it. Altogether, though, he looked mostly the same as earlier in the day, except for his face. His face was stretched by a wide, almost silly-looking grin that looked both warm and a bit unpleasant on his chiseled visage. His eyes that were earlier cold and dead seemed to be full of life and excitement. Barbara was caught so off-guard by the change she didn't notice that he was holding her backpack until he gently pushed it into her hands. She started with a jolt, and quickly took it and stuffed it into her locker.

"Thanks," she said in a cautious manner.

"Oh, right, I forgot to mention how I found it." The boy said. His voice seemed unfittingly light for him, and smooth. "Your dad ran into me and asked I give it you. You _are _Barbara, right?"

"Oh… yeah, I am." Barbara began, only to trail off as she turned around to close her locker door. "But, my dad doesn't even know you. Why would he just—"

She turned around to find the space that had contained the boy empty. She scratched her head, dumbfounded, only to hear a voice to her right call to her.

"Barbara, are you coming?" She turned and spotted the boy to her right standing in front of a doorway. "Class is starting." He informed her.

She blushed a bit at the realization of her own stupidity and hurried into the classroom.


	3. Chapter 3

Barbara walked in through the door and into an atmosphere of looming chaos. For the moment, the room was silent. Thirty desks were arranged in neat rows along the gaudily tiled floor, most of them already occupied by the faceless masses. Encouraging posters were plastered all along the walls, ranging from kittens hanging from branches to hot air balloons drifting through a clear sky. All of them rang hollow in a way that was just a bit funny to her.

The solitary window was battered by unrelenting rain, thunder boomed and lightning illuminated the room in a piercing white light. A few of the students closest to the window were staring outside at the downpour, enraptured by its hypnotic rhythm. One of them Barbara recognized. He was a pale-looking boy with auburn hair carelessly split somewhere along the middle, two antennae of hair framing his bored-looking eyes. His shoulders were broad, but the rest of him seemed almost malnourished, particularly his face. His cheeks sunk into his skull, giving him the appearance of a corpse.

He was so transfixed on the rain that he did not notice Barbara take a seat next to him; he didn't make any movement when she tapped his shoulder, either. She spent a moment struggling to recall his name.

"Garfield?"

Slowly, the idea seemed to dawn on him that someone was speaking to him. Garfield turned his head to face her, though the rest of him didn't move. Barbara noted that he was clutching a small red lighter in one hand; apparently there was a reason he appeared to be high.

"Gordon's kid, right?" he asked. "Didn't know you went here."

"Well, I do." Barbara proclaimed. "So how've you been? I haven't seen you since that picnic our families took back in April."

"Been better," he stated in his flat, almost wispy tone of voice. "I don't like the weather this time of year. Too cold, too wet. So what's your deal? I thought you hated me since my dad got the promotion yours wanted."

"What?" Barbara asked, pretending that this wasn't true, and that she had no idea what Garfield was talking about. "No, I don't! I'm just happy to see a familiar face around here; there's so many new kids this year."

"Not really," Garfield flatly explained; his shoulders gave a bit of a shrug as his fingers flicked the wheel of the lighter. A yellow flame shone in the air for a moment, and the boy cupped his free hand around it. He took a moment to let the warmth soak in before extinguishing the blaze. "most of them just don't have a recognizable face. The only real new kid is the one back there."

Garfield pointed with deliberate slowness to the back of the classroom. Barbara looked, but already knew whom he was referring to: the dark-haired boy, who by now had taken a seat at the back of class.

"He was talking to me earlier." Barbara told her neighbor. "He acted like he knew me from somewhere, and he seems really familiar…"

"Well, maybe you know him; I don't." Garfield said. "He seems like a bit of a dolt, if you ask me. I wouldn't hang around him too long."

Even if Barbara had had more to say, Garfield would have none of it. He turned his head away and laid it down on the desk, returning his gaze to the growing storm outside. About this same time, a frail-looking old man entered the doorway to the class. Any doubts to his health were dispelled, though, when he grabbed a yardstick near the entryway and slammed it down into the closest desk; it just so happened to be the new boy's.

"You." the old man said in a fierce growl. "Tell me the first capital of Assyria."

"Or what?" another voice called out from the back row. "I'll be tossed off the bridge?"

A few students who both got and were not tired of the joke snickered to themselves, though the older man was less amused. He made his way to the offending student's desk. The boy was thin with dark slick-backed hair, and stared up at the man with a sly grin.

"Problem, officer?" He asked in high-pitched and raspy tone. The man did nothing but give a _harrumph _of contempt and made his way to the front of the classroom, where he faced the students with a puffed out chest and began a speech.

"I asked that question because I was confident in knowing that none of you knew the answer. My name is Professor Doll, and I am here to inform you of one thing:"

He pulled out a marker and quickly wrote a message on the board, which he read aloud for anyone that might be incapable of reading (not an unfair assumption from the looks of his students):

"YOU ARE NOT PERFECT."

"What I have found," Doll began "is that the culture of this city has sheltered the youth, coddled them in fact. You all seem to believe that you're invincible, that the universe revolves around you, but children, in THIS CLASS you will—"

_—_

The same would-be comedian from earlier let loose a raspberry, while giving a thumbs-down sign with a distinctively displeased look on his face.

"Who let this hack on stage?" he demanded, slamming a fist onto his desk. "I thought we were supposed to see some TALENT! Not some old fart who couldn't tell a joke if it was on a teleprompter in front of him!"

"Are you mad?" Professor Doll responded. "Sit down right now or you'll be spending the next week in detention! This is a classroom, not a comedy club."

"Tell me about it," the boy said as he slumped into his seat. "A xylophone made out of the Marx brothers' ribs would get more laughs a show than you."

With over half of the class stifling laughter, Doll went on with his speech. Barbara paid little attention to it, however. While most of the other class had at least smiled at the resident clown's attempts at humor, the mysterious boy from earlier's face made no movements at all. He didn't appear to be bored, like Garfield, but oddly focused. A mysterious determination was in his eyes that she couldn't understand.

….

The rest of the school day passed uneventfully. Barbara could hardly remember it as anything more than a blur of classes and teachers she had yet to care about, terrible jokes by the greasy-haired boy, and a very awkward lunch spent with Edward. No amount of subtle hinting could convince him that she wished to eat at a table that did not involve him in any manner, and she learned a great deal about him despite her attempts to tune him out.

"To tell the truth, I'm not supposed to be a sophomore." she was mortified to remember he had told her. "If I went by age I'd only be in the 8th grade; but an IQ as high as mine has its benefits."

When the clock struck two, the shrill bell out in the hall rang, alerting the student body that they were free from the tyrannical clutches of school for the rest of the day. They wasted no time in celebrating this newfound freedom by cramming the doors as they trampled over each other, all attempting to be the first to leave and avoid the oncoming tsunami of fleeing students.

Barbara had little intention of getting caught in such a mess, and calmly went to her locker, grabbing her bag and waiting for the halls to empty before heading out. Droves of strangers walked by, but one stepped out of the crowd and walked in her direction. The mysterious boy that she had been running into all day took a stance next to her and leaned back into a locker, watching the crowds go by.

After a moment of silence, Barbara decided to speak first. "Um, is there something I can help you with?"

"Hm?" the boy asked, turning his head in her direction. "Oh, I'm just waiting here, since we're taking the bus back to your house, right?"

Barbara instinctively took a step back, suddenly very disturbed by the boy. "And why would you be following me home?" she demanded to know. To her surprise, and fury, the boy seemed genuinely confused.

"What do you mean? Your dad said I could come… didn't you read the note?"

"What note?" she asked.

"The one your dad put on your bag."

Barbara's hand shot like a rocket over her shoulder and grasped at her bag, quickly finding a crumpled sticky note. She ripped it off of its place and read the message on it.

"The boy who brought you this is an old friend of the family. Bring him home with you, we'll be having him over for dinner.

-Dad"

She looked up from the note to see the boy had extended a hand expectantly.

"It would probably help if I introduced myself, wouldn't it? My name is Bruce."

The city bus was by no means Barbara's preferred method of transportation. At the moment, however, it proved the only means she had to get home with her newfound, rather unwanted guest. The rain in Gotham had been steadily pounding away for the past nine hours, and with no end in sight no soul dared to be caught outside without their umbrella or a hood. Except for two very cold and wet teenagers standing at the bus stop.

Barbara had met the city's mayor once before. He had been an affable enough man, kind enough to supply her with a lollipop, though she had been about four years too old for such a token at the time. Her father was quick to dispel any illusions about the man, though.

"Honey, he seems nice. Hell, he probably is." She remembered his words clearly. "But a lot of nice men are hiding real nasty ones just underneath the skin."

As she'd grown, and politics began to affect her life, she had noticed how damaging his policies were to the city, not the least of which was the idealistic notion that all criminals could be redeemed if given the proper care. This led to Gotham being voted the worst state in the nation for repeat offenders. But, his supporters said, at least the buses ran on time.

Forty minutes past schedule, the buses could no longer make this claim.

"So," Bruce began, apparently unable to take the awkward silence Barbara had carefully built up over the last hour. "I guess you don't remember me at all then?"

"Remember you? Should I?" Barbara asked.

"Well, maybe not." the boy said back, scratching at the back of his head. "About eight years ago, we met at a gala you and your dad attended. I came over to your house to play a couple of times."

"Oh, I'm sorry," Barbara said, feeling a little bit worse about forgetting than her choice of words let on. "I completely forgot about it. Why didn't I ever see you again?"

For a brief moment, Bruce's carefree smile faltered, and an emotion Barbara had never even imagined, let alone seen, blinked in his eyes. After thinking, she decided it almost looked like despair. But his composure was regained within an instant, even if his eyes were somewhat dulled now. "I moved away," he explained. "but that's a story for later. The bus is here."

On Bruce's cue a dirty, steel-blue bus pulled up to the street corner and came to a stop, hissing as its doors opened either from the release of pressure or from the disgusting odor of Gotham's populace as they poured out of the sardine can they rode around town. Once the last of them had gotten off, a particularly obese man with a harelip specifically, the both of them stepped on and encountered a surly-looking woman in the driver's seat. She said nothing, but glanced to them and then the change counter beside of her. Barbara reached into her pocket, and nearly jumped in shock for what she believed to be the third time that day as Bruce grabbed her wrist and pulled her arm away from her wallet.

"Relax, I can pay for it." He assured her.

She was flattered by the offer, but stood her ground, reaching back for her wallet. "Really," she asserted. "I can afford it."

"So can I." Bruce replied, reaching into his pocket. "And I insist." He came up with a crisp, black leather wallet; its outline was trimmed in shimmering gold. But the center nearly made Barbara's jaw dropped. In the center of the wallet was an ornately decorated silver shield with a cursive "W", known to every citizen of Gotham as the crest of the billionaire family of businessmen and philanthropists, the Waynes.

"You mean you're THAT Bruce—"

"So that means I can pay then?" Bruce asked her, apparently completely oblivious to the question he had just interrupted. He picked a few coins out of a zipped pocket within the wallet and dropped them into the coin slot. He grabbed her wrist and beckoned her toward the back of the bus. "Come on, we're holding up the line."

The pair moved to near the back of the bus, the dirty crowd somehow leaving a single bench open. Bruce slid in and scooted himself to the far side; Barbara was content to sit by the aisle. Excluding, of course, the stench of the man standing mere inches from her face. They rocked back in their seats as the bus trudged on down the street, searching for more lonely souls to bring on board.

Barbara glanced over at her traveling companion, and saw that he was staring outside. They were passing through Crime Alley; a rather crude nickname for the single worst neighborhood in Gotham, if only worse than the surrounding areas by a little. To call the buildings ramshackle would be an insult to a shanty town. Oil drums lined the streets like lampposts, ready to light on a cold autumn night like the one steadily creeping over the city. His eyes were transfixed on the blunt horror of it all.

"This your first time through Crime Alley?" Barbara asked the boy. She didn't get a response for quite some time, and she thought maybe he hadn't heard her; but the moment she tried to repeat herself, he answered.

"No. Just the first time in a while."

A chill went up her spine. The words were innocent enough, but there was something sinister in the way he said those words. As if he were alluding to something unspeakable.

"Oh," Barbara grunted, unsure of what to say. Bruce decided to speak for her.

"This is actually my first day back in the city for a long time," he told her, although he refused to turn his head and look her in the eye. "I've been on the road a lot. Looking for…"

"A home?" Barbara asked, attempted to help him find the missing words.

"Not exactly." he responded. That was the last thing he said on the bus, although another twenty minutes passed before they arrived at their stop. When the vehicle finally ground to the last halt they would have to endure, the pair scurried out of the filth of a hundred people packed like sardines.

A tall, thin house stood in front of them, solid red brick, with a grizzled-looking man at the bottom of the steps. Specifically, Barbara's father, Jim. Barbara ran up and hugged him as tightly as she could; he put an arm over her shoulder and gave his free hand to Bruce, greeting him with a firm shake. "It's been a long time, Bruce. Welcome back to Gotham."

"Glad to be home, Jim." the boy responded. Barbara looked at him as if he were insane. Did he just call her father, his senior by 22 years, "Jim"?

To her surprise, or rather utter shock, all her father did in response was give a low chuckle and make a gesture to bring the both of them inside. "Come on, Barbara, your mother's already got dinner on the table."

The trio walked into the Gordon family's home, Jim and Bruce chatting idly about random, trivial things; the weather, sports, the crime sprees that had been sweeping the city recently. Barbara would have found the last part odd, but crime had become such a prevalent part of life in Gotham, it was no longer a subject to be considered taboo in public. It was as much a fact of life as work, school, or shopping for groceries.

They walked into the kitchen, where a bright-faced and cheery woman was dashing between various dishes and pots, humming to herself as she went. "Your dinner is already on the table!" she said, not bothering to look away from her work. Barbara's father insisted that she sit down and eat, and he would make his own plate. She responded in a somewhat irritated tone that she didn't need help, and that she would eat when she was ready. He raised his voice and shouted that if she wanted to break her back working, she should stop hounding him over never doing anything around the house.

The pair retreated from the room, their voices growing ever louder even as they went upstairs. Bruce's eyes followed them out of the kitchen with a confused and somewhat worried look. "I'm sorry, did I come on a bad day?"

"Nah, don't worry about it." Barbara told him, sitting down at the table. "It's just a game they play."

"A game?" He asked, disbelieving.

"Something like that. They like to argue about everything; I'm pretty certain they have a whiteboard up in their room they keep score on. Sit down and eat." She told him, gesturing to a chair. He complied and took his seat, and looked down at the food, some kind of chipped beef and gravy over mashed potatoes.

"Looks good," he commented as he reached for a napkin. As he grabbed one, he finally noticed the little boy who was watching him. He wasn't a day older than six, and seemed absolutely enthralled by Bruce.

"Are you Mister Wayne?" He asked in a breathless voice. Bruce chuckled and nodded.

"So you're a ghost?"

Bruce's smile faltered and he looked at the child warily. "What do you mean?"

"Aren't you that Mister Wayne guy that died? My daddy told me about you when I was a baby."

"James, shut up!" Barbara hissed at her little brother. "You're upsetting him." Bruce held up a hand to her.

"No, it's fine." He insisted. He turned his gaze back to James and told him, in a voice that seemed both deeper and softer than before, "You're thinking of my dad, Thomas Wayne. I'm his son, Bruce."

James gave a grunt of understanding, and went back to eating, all interest suddenly lost in what was clearly now not a ghost. Bruce and Barbara ate as well, in silence. Barbara could think of nothing to say to her houseguest, afraid of upsetting him like her brother had. And he seemed to have no interest in speaking at all.

The awkward situation was defused when her mother and father walked back in, seemingly happier than ever, and took their seats. Barbara figured she could talk to Bruce by proxy with her father around.

"Dad?" she asked, her father looking at her expectantly. "How do you and Bruce know each other? He called you 'Jim'."

"Oh." Her dad said. He held a cigar in his teeth, unlit for the sake of his family but being ground down to nothing by his teeth from the sudden stressful question. "It's a long story, honey, and I'm not sure Bruce really would want me to talk about it."

"No, go ahead." Bruce told him. "No reason to keep secrets."

"Right," Jim said to him. He took two fingers and removed the cigar from his mouth and let them weave around it as he thought.

"Eight years ago, when I was first promoted to Lieutenant, I was on a case over in Park Row. But you and James probably only know it as Crime Alley. It was a nicer place then, real ritzy stuff. My first assignment as an Lt. was to go over there and investigate a murder case outside of a theater. When I got there, the murderer was already long gone, but the ambulances hadn't arrived to remove the bodies yet. The victims were Thomas and Martha Wayne, two of the town's richest citizens and its greatest philanthropists. And Bruce's parents."

Barbara looked over at Bruce. He said nothing in protest, but she could see a troubled look in his eye. She wondered how vividly he remembered that night.

"That was when I met Bruce," Jim continued. "a little kid in an alleyway crying for his parents. The men on scene suggested we ship him off to a foster school, or take him down to the station. But he looked hurt; stupid thing of me to say, of course he was, but I thought that I might be able to help. So I sat with him and talked for a couple of hours, helped him talk to the sketch artist to describe the man that did it, and waited with him until his butler came and picked him up. He stayed a friend of the family for about three years, we kept in contact with him, though he was home-schooled so you and James never really saw much of him. Then he left, without a trace or a forwarding address. Just where did you go, son?"

"A lot of places." Bruce said. "Alfred and I—"

"Who's Alfred?" James asked.

"My butler." Bruce answered. James only then seemed to recognize the words being said to him, and he returned to the sort of awe-stricken state he had had when Bruce first walked in

"Anyway, Alfred and I decided that it would be best if I got a view of the rest of the world, instead of spending my life sheltered up in a mansion. We took a tour of about twenty different countries: England, Ireland, Portugal, Morocco, Chad, Russia, Japan, the list goes on. I only just finished a month ago, so I decided to come back to Gotham."

"Seems like quite the undertaking for an 11-year old boy and his old butler." Jim told him.

"Believe me," Bruce said. "it was worth it."

The rest of the dinner passed pleasantly. Bruce spoke little, but he seemed to grow a little friendlier, willing to answer questions or laugh at jokes made. But throughout the meal something seemed slightly off, that Barbara could not place her finger on. Before she could really observe at length, dinner had already ended, and Bruce was walking with Jim to the door. She followed them out the front door, and was startled to find a black limousine waiting in the street for him.

The three walked over to its side, and a man stepped out of the driver's seat, a tall man in a finely-pressed black suit. His head was balding, with well-combed silver hair, and a finely waxed moustache. He appeared entirely stoic, though with a twinkle in his eye that seemed full of life. He walked over to the rear passenger door and opened it for Bruce, who stepped inside. As the man in the suit went back to the driver's seat, Bruce rolled down his window and gave a small wave to Barbara and her father.

"Thank you for everything, the food was fantastic." He said with a bit of a smile on his face. "Next time I'll have you over to my house, I'm sure Alfred could make something in a pinch."

The Gordons waved as Bruce's transport pulled away, off in the direction of the sun, now going down at a steady pace. Jim put a hand on her daughter's shoulder and guided her in the direction of the house. "Let's get inside before it gets dark, kid. You've still got homework to do, I'm sure."

Barbara groaned as she remembered the work she still needed done. The day had been blotted out, it seemed, by the arrival of Bruce Wayne. Even as she walked up to her room, homework in hand, her mind couldn't help but ponder the curious look in his eye.


	4. Chapter 4

The chill of the night embraced Gotham in its icy grip. The Autumn embraced the city with all of its might, and tonight was a prime example of the city's worst, both in temperature and deed.

In the neighborhood formerly known as Park Avenue, a small alarm rang on the street corner. A run-down convenience store, dimly lit by a bright light was the source. The door to it burst open from the inside; two burly looking characters ran out the door in a mad dash, half-full bags in their left hands and matte-black handguns in their right.

Already in the distance they could hear police sirens closing in on the shop, but they didn't worry. Crime Alley was a second home to the filth of the city, and they knew it like the palms of their hands. They sprinted down the street, going a full block before they came into friendly territory. To their right a damp alley led into concealing darkness, a welcome refuge from the occasional cop who dared to enter this part of town.

The pair entered the dark maw, barely passing the corner before red and blue lights filled up the alley for an instant as the cars sped by. The thugs looked at the bags, then each other, and broke into a wild guffaw.

"Oh, man, we were almost toast!" the shorter one said, setting the bag on the ground to clutch at his ribs. The other one leaned back against the wall and set his gun down on an adjacent trash can. He reached into his bag and pulled out a lighter and a pack of cigars, passing one to his companion. The two lit up their reward for a job well done, and took a moment to relax.

"This is the life, ain't it pal?" the taller one said, his massive nose shielding the rest of his face form the light of his smoke. "Just two fellas against the world, nothing but the clothes on our backs and the guns in our hands. Kinda romantic, when ya think about it."

The short one stared at him in a reprehensive sort of way.

"I meant, yaknow, in the old-fashioned sense'a romantic. The poetic kind."

"Oh." The other one said. "Yeah, I guess I get yer point."

They took another puff, smoke filling up the dark alley, and at their most serene moment a strange sound came from above them. It sounded like the shifting of feet.

"Hey, man, you hear that?" The short one asked, now holding his weapon close to his chest.

"Yeah," the other one said. He reached a meaty hand out for his own weapon, and was responded to by a metallic _shing_-ing noise in the air, along with a clanging noise as something collided with his gun, the weaponry skittering across the ground and into a wall well out of his reach.

The little device that accomplished this task rested on the lid of the can. The taller crook picked it up gingerly and examined it, shedding light on it with his cigar.

"It's a… a bat?"

The device, about the size of a human hand, was dark as pitch and entirely metal, shaped as he said in the form of a stylized bat.

"Who cares what it looks like?" the little one said. "Who threw it?"

On cue, another of the metal gadgets slung through the air and embedded itself in his hand. A yelp of pain echoed out the tiny alleyway and into the street, the discomfort forcing him to drop his gun. As it clattered to the ground, a fluttering sound came down from above, and with it a shadow descended into the alleyway.

The thugs backed away from the figure as it rose. They could not see its actual shape, since its colors perfectly blended with the darkness of the location they found themselves in; but his eyes were as visible as the sun on a clear day. They were white, with no color in them; they glowed, reflecting light from no visible source, and gave the closest parts of his face a grim pallor.

The eyes narrowed.

The taller man, the braver of the two, made the first move, and made a wide left hook at the figure. He wasted no time in assuming it to be hostile, though he underestimated its capabilities. An arm shot out from the shadows, its vice-like grip tightening around the thug's fist. A popping noise was followed by the large man's groan of shock and agony. A second fist shot like a rocket and collided with the goon's face, a shockwave pounding it to jelly as he fell flat on his back, out cold.

The second man was no fool, and knew when he was outmatched. He spun on his heel before his friend had even hit the ground, and took off at a frantic pace out toward the street. His lead foot stepped out of the alleyway, giving him a glimpse of freedom before being replaced by sheer terror. He heard something like the discharge of a pellet gun, and the whizzing of rope as something clamped spun around and latched onto his torso, tripping him onto his face. His nose cracked from the impact, blood leaking out as he was dragged back into what began to seem like his tomb.

He was pulled nearly to where he had started running before coming to a stop, a swift kick to his ribs flipping him onto his back to see his assailant face to face. On the ground, his own cigar illuminated the face glaring down at him. He saw now that it was no inhuman monster; at least, in appearance it was not. A man's jaw was clearly visible on him, broad and square, if perhaps a little too bare to come across as that of a fully-grown adult. The crook had no time to distinguish the finer details, however, as he was occupied with soiling himself in terror.

The eyes still glowed bare white, and the rest of the face was shrouded by a black cowl, a point over the nose, and two elongated points like ears coming up from the sides of his head. He was entirely stoic as he looked down at his victim. A clap of thunder rumbled in the air as the rain from earlier in the day began again in earnest, drenching the two in seconds.

"W-what are you?" the little man asked, trembling.

The man's eyebrows furrowed, visible even under the mask. He spoke in a gruff, deep voice.

"I am the night."

He raised his fist, and with a single punch blotted out the criminal's vision once and for all.

…..

"Whaddaya make of it, Jim?" asked a rookie, taking notes on a pad of paper he had brought with him.

Lieutenant Jim Gordon stood at the beginnings of the alleyway, staring at the grisly scene within. The remnants and ashes of a blazing fire had died down and soaked to nearly nothing in the rain. In the center of the alleyway, two bodies piled on top of each other, now nothing more than charred skeletons. Embedded in the eye socket of the smaller one was an object Gordon didn't recognize.

He approached it and lifted it with a gloved hand, examining it up against his eyes, obscured by glasses. Though charred, the strange metal object was recognizably shaped as, of all things, a bat.

"To tell the truth, kid, I don't know." Lieutenant Gordon muttered, rubbing his chin as he placed the object in a baggie. "But if you ask me, I think we've just made a breakthrough on our arsonist case."


	5. Chapter 5

The storms from the day before had at last died down, and for once the sun was shining through the oppressive skyline of Gotham City. Barbara Gordon sat in the passenger seat of her mother's car; her father had left at almost two in the morning. He hadn't said for what, but it had obviously been a call from the station. The young woman couldn't help but wonder what could have been so important as to drag her father out of his forced vacation.

The car pulled up in front of the school, and her mother unlocked the door. "Have a good day, Barbara; I'll be here to pick you up at three, all right?"

"Right, mom. See you then."

Barbara stepped out of the car, giving a little wave goodbye to her parent as she started to walk up the ludicrously long staircase to the front doors of Gotham High. Already she could see that getting inside was going to be a problem; a veritable avalanche of students had piled up around the doors, and for whatever reasons were not going inside. Curious, Barbara approached the crowd and tried to look over the shoulders of those around her. The students were clamoring over something at the top of their lungs, and no matter how loud she raised her voice the people in front of her were either unaware of her existence or simply didn't care.

As she continued to protest, a finger tapped on her shoulder. She turned and saw Bruce standing beside her, a warm smile contrasted with the heavy bags under his eyes.

"Wow, you look awful." Barbara noted, unsure if she sounded worried or sarcastic. "What happened?"

"Long night studying." Bruce explained. He arched a single eyebrow, intrigued by the crowd. "Looked like you were having some trouble getting through; want some help?"

"Well, sure," she replied, "but I don't see how you—"

"HEY!" Bruce shouted. His voice crashed like a roll of thunder, silencing those around him as they all turned and stared. He lifted up his wallet. "Twenty bucks to the first guy to clear a path for my friend and I!"

Whether by awe-inspired immobilization or skepticism, no one moved. Bruce furrowed his brow and reached into the wallet, pulling out a crisp pair of twenties.

"All right, FORTY bucks! Now I know you can't resist that offer!"

Indeed, someone couldn't. From the front doors, a hulk of a teen bashed his way through the crowd, terrified underclassmen scattering in every direction until a path had been cleared. In front of the two sophomores stood a student that could only be described as a juggernaut; over two heads taller than Bruce and seemingly twice as wide, rippling with sheer muscle. He wore a simple pair of jeans and a black tank top, and a black luchador mask was resting lazily on the top of his closely-shaved head. His eyes were a dark brown, but the light reflected off of them in an odd way; he was no mindless brute. The man held out a hand expectantly. Bruce nodded and handed him the $40, which he quickly snatched and put into his pocket. The man grinned, and gestured at the now fully clear path to the doorway. Bruce gave a nod of his head and grabbed Barbara by the hand, dragging her up to the door before she was even aware they were moving.

As soon as they were through the door, the crowd returned to its chokehold on the entrance.

"Bruce, what were you thinking?" Barbara demanded, throwing a hand about wildly as they walked down to their lockers. Bruce looked at her, confused.

"I don't really get what you mean." He said. "Did I do something wrong?"

"You can't just go around waving money like that here!" she explained.

"Well, why not? Worked pretty well, if you asked me."

"Sure, this one time it did." Barbara said in an impatient tone. "But now the school will know you've got money, and somebody's going to want that enough to not bother asking for it."

"Oh. I see." Bruce said. In fact, it was all he said. He gave no further comments and instead stepped over to his locker and threw his bag inside. Barbara took it as meaning he finally understood what exactly he had done wrong, and decided not to press it further.

Down the hall, she heard a high-pitched voice making some odd speech to what sounded like a crowd of people.

"…right on up, come up and get your copy of today's Gotham High Gazette! Today's Headline: Crazed Bat-Murderer stalks Gotham!"

To Barbara's left, a locker slammed. Bruce was staring down in the direction of the voice. "You hear it too?" she asked. He nodded, and took off at a brisk pace in the direction of the noise. Barbara shrugged and followed, figuring that at least it would be an interesting distraction for the thirty minutes until class started.

They found what they were looking for back in the hallway adjacent to theirs that connected near the entrance. A crowd almost as large as the one outside was gathered around a short boy standing on a soapbox. Barbara groaned and covered her face with her palm. It was Eddie.

Too little too late, Ed recognized her from a distance, and waved her over. Bruce gave her a gentle push, and both of them walked over to him. He reached down into his box and pulled out a pair of newspapers, shoving it into their hands.

"Here you go, Babs, one for you and your friend. Compliments of the boss!"

"Boss?" Bruce asked.

"_Babs?_" Barbara asked.

"Yeah, the boss!" Eddie explained, likely trying to ignore Barbara's protest. "Ozzie—I mean, Oswald Cobblepot; he runs the school newspaper, hired me yesterday! He said that since I was such a good public speaker, I could keep two papers free to give to friends. A sort of advertisement, if you will."

The two took a look at the covers and as advertised, the headline read "Crazed Bat-Murderer Stalks Gotham!"

The real eye-catcher, however, was below it. The picture associated with the cover story was a black and white copy of an image taken from what appeared to be a night-vision camera. The focus seemed to be an old side street somewhere in Crime Alley, and near the center was an imposing figure leaping down from the rooftop. Clearly a man, but he appeared to be in some form of costume, a cape longer than the length of his body flowed out from behind him, and some type of horned cowl pulled over his head.

"That's really… interesting." Barbara said, trying to make heads or tails of what she was looking at.

"Extremely interesting." Bruce mused, though it sounded more like he was talking to himself than Barbara. "Where did your boss get this shot?" he asked.

"I don't know." Eddie replied. "The boss doesn't tell just anyone that sort of secret; if you want to bring it up with him he's in his office down the hall." He pointed down a ways to room 417.

"Thanks." Bruce said, folding up the paper neatly before dumping it in the trash. He waved to Barbara and started striding down the hall, barely giving her time to jog up to his side.

"What's the deal, Bruce?" Barbara asked, finding it hard to miss the grim expression on his face. "It's just some talentless hack's newspaper, why does it have you wound up like that?"

The pair found themselves in front of the door. Bruce grabbed a tight grip on the handle and twisted. "Call it professional curiosity."


	6. Chapter 6

On the other side of the doorway was an atmosphere neither of them suspected. Specifically, extensive amounts of burning tobacco. Smoke wafted out the open door as if it had been ready to burst out just a moment before. Bruce seemed to pay little attention to it as he stepped inside, thought Barbara couldn't prevent some rather pronounced coughing from the copious amounts of smoke.

Through the choking miasma, though, the extravagance of the room was apparent. Whatever room 417 had originally been used for, it was now unrecognizable under the coat of deep maroon paint. Dozens of pieces of world-famous art hung from the walls. "Replicas," Barbara heard Bruce whisper to himself. She wondered for a brief moment how he could tell, but her train of thought was interrupted by an abrupt hacking coming from further back.

Up against the opposite wall sat a large poker table, around which sat six or seven students. Barbara recognized the giant who had cleared the door for them earlier sitting beside the boy with his back squarely against the wall. He looked a bit more like a blob than a man, his unshapely rolls of fat poorly hidden underneath a meticulously-pressed tuxedo. White gloves on his large hands gripped a hand of cards, a massive stack of poker chips signified his winnings, compared to the measly piles his opponents had close at hand. A fat cigar hung from his lips, dispensing smoke into the air. The rest of his face was obscured by said smoke, though his stovepipe hat was impossible to miss. The hat stood straight for a moment, as its owner looked up to notice Barbara and Bruce's arrival, and a wave of a hand dismissed everyone but the boy with the luchador mask.

The crowd stood up, stuffing their chips into their pockets before shoving their way past the two newcomers and stepping out the door. They slammed it behind them, leaving the four alone in the room. A gloved hand shook at the air around its owner's face, revealing a very pudgy-looking boy, with black and greasy locks of hair falling from underneath his cap. His massive nose obscured his toothy grin as he began to greet his guests.

"Ah, if it isn't the prodigal son, himself! Welcome back to Gotham, Master Wayne!"

Barbara looked at Bruce curiously, and was relieved to notice he looked as surprised as she did. "How did you know his name?" she asked the boy.

"Oh, please, Miss Gordon, it's practically child's play!" the boy said. "My name is Oswald Cobblepot the second; you could say I'm something of a… broker of goods, here at Gotham High."

"I've heard that name before…" Barbara noted.

"You're thinking of his father." Bruce told her. "Oswald Cobblepot I, principal of Gotham High."

"Done your homework, Master Wayne?" Cobblepot asked him. "Good, I can respect a man who knows his stuff. Come, come down and sit, I'll have my friend here grab us some drinks."

On cue, the hulk of a man stood up from his comically undersized folding chair and walked off to a corner of the room, impossible to spot through the smoke save for a vague shadow. _"How does anyone breathe in here?" _Barbara asked herself. The pair sat down on the opposite side of the table, staring down their current master of ceremonies, who had a rather unsightly smile on his face.

"So," he began. "I know you, and you know me by the sounds of it. So we're obviously not here for introductions. Tell me, what brings you to my humble little rendezvous?"

"Information." Bruce told him.

"Excellent!" Oswald exclaimed. "That's exactly what I deal in, Master Wayne. Or, do you prefer I call you Bruce?"

"Whichever." Bruce stated, seemingly uncaring.

"All right, then, Bruce; shoot." Oswald leaned forward, curious at what he could be requesting. Bruce began to speak, but Barbara put a hand in front of his face to halt him.

"If I could get a word in here," she said. "before we begin, could somebody explain to me how in the world this room even exists? Shouldn't you be busted by somebody? I mean, you've got gambling, cigars, not to mention you're skipping class—"

"Please, Barbara, don't patronize me with such easy questions." Oswald replied. At that moment the hulking man-servant returned, bearing three drinks. He put down two cans of soda in front of Bruce and Barbara, both of whom noted that they were looking at their favorite brand. Oswald himself received a glass of red wine, which he took a tentative sip at before continuing.

"I happen to be in a very… privileged position, you might say." Oswald began. "While others might consider themselves to be bound by the rules of Gotham High, or indeed the laws of Gotham as a whole, I am one of the enlightened few who realizes them as what they are: a sham. A hoax." As he spoke, he made wild, confusing gestures with his hands, as if he believed they illustrated what he was trying to say.

"There aren't really any rules here, my dear Barbara, only guidelines to tell you where to go and what to do. That is, if you're too feeble-minded to play the game."

"The game?" she asked.

"Yes, the game." Oswald stated with enthusiasm. "There are a few individuals at this school, such as myself, who are both intelligent and affluent enough to understand that the rules can be bent, however we see fit, so long as we can avoid arousing suspicion. For example, take this room. Room 417 was nothing at the beginning of last year; not a science lab, or a lunch room, or even a broom closet! It served no purpose, and nobody had any reason to ever go inside. So, of course, all it took was a bit of nudging to turn a few heads in the other direction, and I was free to move in. From here I can run my various investments, such as the school paper, in comfort. As well as my… shall we say, less publically acceptable endeavors."

"Speaking of which," Bruce interrupted. "that's why we're here. Today's issue of your paper."

"That so, Bruce?" Oswald asked. "And why, pray tell, is that?"

"On the front cover there was a very odd picture. What do you know about it?"

"Oh, today's headline?" Oswald confirmed. "A very interesting find, I must admit; but I'm sorry to say it's a trade secret. I can't just go revealing things like that to random passers-by. It would ruin my sterling reputation as a broker! Of course… if we were to speaking in terms of trade, I might reconsider."

"I can handle that." Bruce told him, pulling out his wallet. Oswald saw the wallet, and with a flick of his wrist wrenched out, of all things, an umbrella from under the table, whacking the boy's wrist from across the table.

"Please, Bruce, the last thing I need is money!" Oswald told him. "My wealth is comfortable enough, thank you. If you don't have anything better to offer, I'd suggest you just leave."

He turned his back to the two, giving Barbara a chance to breathe a sigh of relief. She had had enough of the choking atmosphere of the room. But as she stood up, Bruce's hand grabbed her arm and gently pushed her back into her seat. "If we can't offer you a trade," he said. "how about we leave it up to a game of chance?"

Oswald turned back around, his curiosity piqued. "A game of chance, eh? You've really done your homework, Bruce, you know my weakness. What did you have in mind? Craps, Poker, Texas Hold 'Em?"

"I was thinking… Blackjack?" Bruce suggested. Oswald's face drooped a bit.

"Oh, the simpleton's card game." he noted. "Very well, I suppose it will be quick at the least. How about, first to three hands wins? You win, I tell you what you want to know, and I win, you're my newest newspaper salesman?"

"Sounds good enough for me." Bruce told him.

The giant man emerged from the shadows, holding a deck of cards, which he placed at the center of the table. Oswald pointed at him and said "He'll deal."

The dealer shuffled the deck, his meaty hands surprisingly dexterous as the cards flew about each other in random patterns. He picked up four cards off the top of the freshly-shuffled deck and tossed two to each player. As Bruce's cards landed in front of him, Barbara took note of their extremely poor state. The cards were crumpled, and covered in something. The one on top, a four, appeared to have grape jelly smeared on it, and a King was coated with cheese puff dust. Oswald's hand was just as unsightly, a blueberry-stained two and a syrup-dipped ace of spades.

"Hit me." Oswald ordered. The sticky remnants of chocolate syrup skirted the edges of the nine that was handed to him. Bruce did the same, his brow furrowed as he watched the card. Another one coated in cheese puff dust. This time, a ten.

"Ooh, tough luck there, Master Wayne." Oswald chuckled as the cards were handed back to his dealer. A quick re-shuffling later, and fresh hands were out. Tabasco sauce graced the three in Bruce's hand, along with a seven that appeared to have either mold or guacamole sauce on the corner. Oswald's hand was the ten from before, and the Jack of Hearts. The Jack was stained orange by the copious amounts of cheese puffs that Oswald apparently ingested during these games.

"Stay." Cobblepot announced, calmly waiting for Bruce to make his move. On the top of the deck sat a rather syrupy card.

"Hit me."

The dealer flipped the card and tossed it over, revealing the Ace of Hearts. Bruce nodded, seemingly to himself, and handed the cards back. "Maybe you shouldn't gloat so quickly, Ozzie."

Oswald's face turned beet red, even in the smoke, at the shortening of his name. He was polite enough not to mention it, however, and instead focused on the game. The cards were dealt again. Bruce received a pair of Queens. Oswald was given a five and a jack. On the top of the deck sat a card that hinted of guacamole.

"Stay." Bruce declared, calmly watching his opponent. Though the foglike smoke made it difficult to tell, Barbara was nearly certain that she spotted a bead of sweat on Oswald's forehead that hadn't been there before.

"I'll stay as well." he said, attempting to hand his cards back before Bruce raised a hand and stopped him.

"The game's not over, Oswald. Why did you forfeit?"

"Huh?" the fat boy asked, almost seeming to not understand a word Bruce said. "Forfeit? Well, er, I simply don't know what you mean."

"I think you do." Bruce told him. "I think you're color-coding your cards to help you cheat. Am I right, Ozzie?"

"Do NOT call me that!" the pudgy boy snarled, leaning in toward Bruce's face; if he had expected it to intimidate, the attempt failed. Bruce failed to even blink.

"Tell me what I want to know." the Wayne child calmly stated. "Tell me and I might forget to mention that Oswald Cobblepot fixes his games."

For a tense moment the room was silent. Barbara had backed away several steps at the precise moment Bruce decided it was wise to grab Oswald by the collar and pull him a bit closer, a fist steadily approaching the large-nosed boy's face. No one seemed to notice his lackey slowly reaching for a wrench on the shelf, though it proved irrelevant as Cobblepot began to squeal.

"Lynns! Garfield Lynns sent me the pictures!" the boy squealed as he struggled to get away from his larger classmate. "He wouldn't tell me where he got them! It's all I know, I swear!"

Bruce dropped Oswald to the floor with startling irreverence and immediately made for the door, beckoning for Barbara to follow.

"What?" she asked. "So now I've just been drafted to follow you through this mad investigation of yours, which you still haven't told me the point of?"

Bruce stopped at the door and looked back at her, confused. "I thought you wanted to get out of the smoke."

Barbara attempted to think of a suitable response, but could only manage bitter grumbling as she followed her companion out into the hallway.


	7. Chapter 7

Barbara pursued Bruce as he strode out into the hallway, only a few students bothering to give glances at the pair before returning to whatever task they had been working at before.

"This is starting to get a little weird, Bruce." Barbara hissed at the new student. "I think it's about time you stopped and gave me some answers on why any of this matters to you."

By then, the pair found themselves in an abandoned corner of Gotham High; the meticulously applied wax from the first day still remained on the floors and walls, not yet scuffed by the heels of a thousand apathetic teenagers unaware of one janitor's suffering.

Bruce turned and glared at Barbara. There was a deep resentment in his eyes, almost rage. "Tell me everything you know about Garfield." he instructed her. Barbara, on instinct, took a step away from Wayne, who responded with two steps to close the gap.

"Tell me!" he growled.

"Bruce, you're scaring me." Barbara stuttered out, finding herself at the corner of the hall. The new student seemed to tower over her at the moment, but for all of his apparent fury all he managed was to lean in and sternly state "It is very important that I find out how Garfield was capable of acquiring those pictures; important enough that lives are on the line. I will ask one more time, Barbara. What do you know about him?"

"What makes you think I know anything?" she spat back at him. "Stupid," a voice in her head told her. She knew that if push came to shove she couldn't do much against someone as big as Bruce in a fight. To a point that surprised her, Bruce retained a bit of composure.

"You were speaking to him yesterday, and you both acknowledged a prior connection."

"What's with the 'good cop, bad cop' routine you're pulling all of a sudden?" Barbara asked. "It's like you switch between some idiot rich boy and a cold thug every couple of hours."

"You're avoiding the question." Bruce stated.

"So are you." Barbara replied. The air was tense with anticipation as both of the pair waited to see the other's reaction. Slowly, Barbara realized that Bruce was not going to be backing down any time soon. She sighed and began to explain.

"He's the son of Commissioner Lynns, my dad's superior at the Gotham Precinct. We've met at a couple of formal gatherings, but we never really talked. That's all I know, Bruce."

"That's all I need to know." He told her. He turned his back to her and began to walk down the hallway, to a more populated section, but a swelling of poorly thought-out courage swelled inside of Barbara. She stormed back to him, grabbing him by the shoulder and yanking him around to face her. He was glaring down at her, but the fact that she had even managed to get him to turn alerted her to just how shocked her opposition was that she had tried that.

"Two DAYS, Bruce!" she shouted, too caught in her own moment to care if any passing student caught wind of the confrontation. "I have known you for TWO. DAYS. And here you are trying to drag me along on your little crusade like I'm your lackey, your butler or something! Despite that, I don't know a damn thing about what you're trying to accomplish! Explain to me, _right now¸ _just why you are so interested in some grainy photo of a shadow on the school newspaper."

The bell rang. Any students that still dared to roam the halls quickly dispersed to reach their classes before their absence was noticed. But Bruce and Barbara remained where they stood, for a time that neither of them attempted to measure. Their eyes were locked in a struggle, daring each other to break before they did. The red-headed girl observed Bruce's reaction in intimate detail. His expression was an enigma to her; cold and dead on the outside, but the mildest trace of… something, a thing that she could not quite place, was writhing about underneath. And in a single action, her jaw nearly dropped in astonishment.

He broke.

"I looked at the photo and I noticed several key features. An intensely-high focus that only blurred, very slightly, at medium distance, and a thermal mode with a small blurred bar approximately three quarters of an inch from the bottom of the picture's edge. The camera that took that photo was Waynetech."

"What's so important about it being from your company?" Barbara asked, puzzled at his intense response to a seemingly mild situation.

"That camera is only available to top-level military reconnaissance units. Any places a kid like Garfield could have gotten it are criminal, at best. I have to figure out who's stealing from my company."

Barbara couldn't help but feel a bit dumbfounded by what Bruce was telling her. while her new classmate had been difficult to read, discovering something like this was, to say the least, quite shocking to her. She could not think of anyone she knew whose first solution to a problem such as this would be to seek it out and solve it yourself, instead of alerting the authorities. She wondered if she would make a discovery this shocking every day this year.

Bruce waited a moment for a response from Barbara, but received none. Taking this as a cue that the conversation had ended, he nodded to her and pointed behind him, a wordless signal that they were long overdue for their class. As he turned around to leave, a jolt brought Barbara back to her senses. "Wait, Bruce!" He turned back around to listen.

"I didn't even know you were involved with WayneTech; how would you know those little details about their cameras?"

Bruce mulled it over for a second, and turned back around to walk away. As he left, a soft-spoken response bounced off the empty hall's walls.

"My father let me help design it."


	8. Chapter 8

_Click. Click. Click._

It was 10:38 AM in Gotham City at that moment, and the school day of Gotham High had begun in earnest. Room 313 was the territory of one Mr. Langstrom, a Biology teacher at the school. It was considered by most students that he was also the worst Biology teacher.

His room, in a word, was filthy. Chewed up bits of gum and other pieces of food littered the floor and, in some odd situations, the walls and ceiling. Bits of debris flew about as students warred with one another, taking use of whatever projectiles they could find before flinging them across the room. Twenty desks were crammed into the room, forcing most students to walk across the tops to get to their seats. Posters of various animal were plastered on the walls, though they were too dark to see. The room lacked windows, and at the moment the lights were off for a slideshow. Students often referred to the room as "the Bat Cave" for its state of disrepair, and the obsession of their teacher.

At the front of the room stood the disheveled man himself. Langstrom was easily in his late forties, with thinning auburn hair and a moustache that only the 1970s could have ever spawned. His thick spectacles shone in the light coming almost directly at him, shielding his eyes from view. He wore a ratty old brown-checkered suit, with a white labcoat slung sloppily over his shoulders. He held a remote in his hand, which he used to scroll through various photos that were being displayed by a projector onto the room's blackboard. The resulting images seemed rather chalky, as it was apparent the board had not been cleaned once in the fifteen years that Mr. Langstrom had taught in it.

The current presentation was on Mr. Langstrom's passion, the bat. The tiny mammal was the subject of all of his spare time for research. Though the students were skeptical, word of the wise stated that he was actually a highly respected scientist in his off-time, and that bats were his specialized field of research. Though his competence was in debate, the bats were not. Even at that moment a perfectly preserved bat in a liquid-filled jar sat on Mr. Langstrom's desk, disturbing anyone who noticed it.

"The bat is one of the most historically pervasive animals on the planet." Mr. Langstrom said, about to descend into one of his completely inaccuracte praising sprees for his passion. "From the Americas to the heart of Africa, ancient cultures told stories of the winged creature that stalked the night. Even today it is viewed as a herald of the darkness, and a common symbol of fear in horror stories."

"So is naked women screaming the shower," replied the greasy-haired kid, from his seat at the far back. "why don't we get a class on _that?_"

A chorus of cackles and hoots very nearly derailed the slideshow entirely, despite Mr. Langstrom's best attempts to ignore the comedian. However, not all were particularly amused. Sitting to the left of the clown was Garfield Lynns, extremely busy doing absolutely nothing. Not even bothered to lift his head up to watch the pictures, his head was buried in his arms on the desk, signaling any and all watchers that yes, this boy was sleeping in class, and was begging for someone to do something about it. Fortunately, no one ever did.

However, something motivated the boy to lift his head. He reached into the pocket of his dark jacket and came up with his favorite lighter. It was a deep, entrancing red. The color of the largest of blazes, he was transfixed by it. He would have admired it further, but hairs began to prick up on the back of his neck. Something made him feel as if he were being watched. He looked slightly to his right, to see the newest arrival to Gotham High. He had heard from a freshman earlier in the day that he was, in fact, Bruce Wayne, son of the billionaire couple who was murdered some time ago. He was amazed at how little he cared about that. For all of his money and the power it would bring, the dolt was still a dolt.

At that very moment, no less than three of the class' girls were practically draped around him. He had taken somewhere under zero seconds upon his arrival to school to establish himself as the desire of anyone who loved men, money, or both. It disgusted him; people like that were shallow, materialistic drones and nothing more. And yet, he was unsatisfied with this conclusion. There was something different about this playboy. Sure enough, as he looked over, Bruce was glaring at him with a stare so threatening that even Garfield, who enjoyed categorizing himself as an emotional corpse, felt threatened enough to move his gaze onto other objects.

He wondered what exactly he had done to upset the new student. Perhaps he just hated people who didn't fawn over him? He was certain, regardless, that after class he would be jumped by some form of hired thug to exact some form of revenge. He made a mental note to keep his lighter ready to singe any hand that dared get too close to him today, before going back to sleep.

"Hey," said a somewhat squeaky-voiced blonde attempting to drape herself over Bruce. "where'd you get that?"

"Get what?" he asked her, a wry grin stretched across his face.

"That!" the girl said, pointing to his face. Specifically, at a tiny scar just below his left eye. It had faded, but it was severe enough that it was highlighted by the light of the projector.

"Oh, this thing?" he asked, trying not to sound too amused by his own gloating. "Oh, I picked that up over in Japan a couple years back. Some guy decided he didn't like my face, so he gave me this."

"That so?" asked a redhead, eyeing him from the seat to his left. "And what did you do to him?"

"Well," Bruce began, leaning toward her with a sly grin. "let's just say that the scars I got from him were pretty. The ones I gave him… not so much." The blond nearly swooned. In the corner Barbara could be heard making a retching noise.

"And when he got out of the hospital," the billionaire continued. "I sued him for all he's worth!"

As the girls around him laughed at his unfunny joke and admired his mountains of money, Barbara couldn't help but leer at them. The shallow gold-digger lifestyle was not for her, but it had found plenty of practitioners at Gotham High, and since his stunt at the front door word had quickly spread of Bruce's real identity, and his status as the wealthiest kid in school. She had not been glaring for more than a few minutes before she realized that the slick-haired boy from earlier had managed to draw himself eerily close to her face, making the same passively angry face at Bruce and his harem.

"It's infuriating, ain't it?" he asked her in his difficult-to-describe voice. "When do WE get a chance to swoon over ol' Brucie?"

"Um, excuse me?" Barbara asked him, suddenly feeling a very strong urge to move to a new desk.

"Oh, don't play dumb, girl." He told her in a dismissive voice. "I see those eyes'o' yours; that longing, that _desire…_"

Barbara's eyebrows furrowed into an intense glare, now directed at the "funny man" and attempted to launch some insult at him, only to come up short. "I don't know what you're talking about." she said, turning away from him.

"Oops, I'm sorry!" he said in a mockingly apologetic tone. "Did I strike a nerve with the copper's kid? Oh, please don't tell your daddy on me!" he burst out into a bit of raspy laughter, amused to tears by himself; he actually wiped away a tear from his eye as he reached down into his purple shirt pocket, coming up with a small rectangular object.

"Here's my card." he told her, sliding it under her hand before doing an about face and walking back to his chair. "Call me later, we can have some good-ol'-fashioned girl talk!" he called back as he left. Barbara groaned, shoving the card into her pocket, determined to forget about it as quickly as possible.

At that precise moment, the bell chose to ring. The first one out the door was Professor Langstrom himself, eager to be away from the cacophony of teenagers. The rest filed out in some semblance of order. Barbara was the last, as far as she could tell. But when she turned to close the door behind her, she found two figures were still sitting in the room.

Garfield stared down Bruce Wayne, who kindly returned the favor. The stupid expression on the rich boy's face was gone now. He looked dead serious. Garfield realized at that moment he had made a stupid mistake, assuming that a hired thug would shake him down. Look at those muscles, he thought to himself. Bruce himself would handle the interrogation.

He sprang from his seat, dashing to the door, but Bruce was ready. He leaped from his desk, propelling his massive frame halfway across the room before tackling Garfield to the ground. "Barbara!" Bruce yelled. "Get the door!" On his orders, the door slammed shut, and clicked as the lock was turned. This was the development that truly surprised Garfield. As obvious as it was that she was attempting to hang out with him, he had never suspected she was in on whatever schemes he was up to.

"You've got your hands on WayneTech property, Lynns." Bruce growled, looming over the, in comparison, twiglike boy. "How. Did. You. Get it?"

His mind raced. Garfield, at the moment, had no idea what he was talking about. Unless WayneTech sold joints, he had no recollection of what he could mean. Then, it suddenly hit him, and his eyes widened a bit in realization. He began to whimper, suddenly realizing the danger he was in with someone of Bruce's physical condition on top of him.

"Calm down, Wayne, please! Don't hurt me, I'll tell you everything!"

"Then _talk._" Bruce stressed.

"M-my dad." Garfield explained. "My birthday was a couple weeks ago! He gave me a new camera, it's got your logo on it! That must be what you're talking about, right?"

"That camera is military grade." Bruce informed him. "Why would your father give it to you?"

"I don't know, okay! I just wanted a camera, and he got me one!"

Bruce paused, attempting to think through the explanation's plausibility. It seemed to satisfy him, as the scowl lessened for a moment. "Fine." he said. "What about the picture in Cobblepot's newspaper? Where did you get that? Why did you give it to him?"

"I work as his photographer, sometimes!" Garfield answered, cold sweat pouring down his face. "I get interesting pictures, and he pays me and makes stories out of them! I got that one walking home from a friend's house; that's all, I swear!"

Bruce stood up, making no attempt to avoid putting his weight on Garfield as he did so. "I think we're nearing the end of this trail, Barbara." he said. "Commissioner Lynns is the new prime suspect."

"Great." Barbara said, just happy that the moment of brutality was over. "So what are you going to do? You can't just confront the Commissioner with an accusation like theft in Gotham, you'll be thrown in jail for even thinking it!"

"Don't worry about it." Bruce told her as he walked for the door. "You go home and rest, I'll take care of it. I have connections."

The pair walked back into the hallway, the bell indicating that they were officially late for class. Back in the floor of the Biology room, Garfield was still laying on the floor, panting heavily until he heard the door click shut. With a deep, shuddering breath he returned to normal breathing, wiping his forehead free of sweat as he stood up.

"That was a close one." he whispered to himself.


	9. Chapter 9

The rain returned that night. The time on the clock read 11:52; Gotham laid dormant for a solitary night. The air chilled any who dares walk to empty streets to the bone, and even beyond precipitation they moved about this late at their own risk. The underbelly of Gotham showed itself in full force in the witching hour, and no cop who cared for their own life would dare be caught outside.

That was why Commissioner Lynns was snugly tucked away inside his humble red-brick abode. He was alone on that particular night; his son had gone away to spend the night at a friends'. His wife had passed during the summer; a terrible car accident took her. Or, that was what he had told his son. He sat in mourning in his parlor, cozily decorated by his late beloved with warm colors, a crackling fireplace keeping him warm on this freezing night. On the mantle sat a simple urn, inside the only thing he had left of his better half. Commissioner Lynns had spent more time than he cared to remember sitting there at night, reflecting. The day the door burst in, and a trio of suited men came into his house, uninvited. The lack of expression on their faces as they gunner her down. The tears streaming down his face as he kissed the ring of their leader. That was the first time Gotham's police department had officially been on the payroll of organized crime. He regretted his decision, but he told himself that it was the only way. If he was to protect his son, he had to do what he needed to.

He stood up from his chair, the floor creaking under his weight as he rose to his feet. The room lit up as a flash of lightning illuminated the city from the window to his left. On another occasion, he might have ignored it. But something beckoned him tonight. He turned and leaned on the windowsill, staring out into the inky darkness of the street below.

On the opposite side of the street, a shape caught his eye. It was eerie, that was all he could describe it as. As far as he could tell it was a man, but something was off about it. It was shrouded in something, possibly the darkness itself. It stood under a street lamp, but the normally illuminating guardian of the night proved impotent, a few listless sparks hinting to its lack of function.

The shape took hold of Commissioner Lynns' thoughts. Was it a man? A beast? Or something worse? He stared at it intently, and as the thunder rolled, a terrible grip seized its heart; he finally knew that it was staring back at him.

A flash of lightning illuminated the street, and at once Lynns bolted from the window. It was coming.

He dashed up the stairs, already hearing a pounding at the door as the hinges were ripped away. The roaring of the elements came into his home unabated now as he dashed into his den, slamming and locking the door behind him. He knew it would buy him little time, but it was all he would need. A vicious sound like a beast sprinting was coming from the other side of the door as he came up to his chest, smashing the glass open. Now was no time for weapon safety precautions. He slipped a pair of brass knuckles onto his left fist, and pulled a loaded handgun from the display case. As he turned to face his attacker, the door came down. On perfect cue, the electric fury of the sky bathed the room in white, giving the creature in the doorway a visage almost demonic.

Lynns felt his heart nearly stop with fear, but he had trained for years not to let that stop him. He took aim and fired with his gun, but the shot went wide, impacting the door frame. The thing revealed its imposing figure as a body underneath a massive, black cloak. A tucked-away arm sprang up, a gun in its hand. Lynns prepared to duck too late, and a hissing spring accompanied a hook on the end of a wire catching itself on his gun, pulling it away. Lynns nearly dove for it, but realized the folly of such a move, and instead reached back into the display case.

This time, a shotgun was gripped tightly in his hands. He spun on his heels, gun loaded, to face his attacker.

Nothing was there.

A sudden punch from the left staggered the aging Commissioner, as the black creature continued its assault. Lynns finally got a good look at the thing as it came into close combat with him, and realized it was only a man, perhaps even an inch or two shorter than him.

He was deeply worried that that did nothing to soothe his fear.

Lynns regained his composure long enough to throw a left hook, but it was too wide, and the man in the cloak ducked underneath of it, countering with two swift punches to the ribs. Lynns almost doubled over as one of his bones threatened to snap. The silent monster attempted to take advantage of this, and delivered a sharp uppercut, to find the Commissioner was a more formidable opponent than he had believed. The balding, gray-haired man caught the fist with his own and shoved it into the wall, leaving him open for Lynns to deliver a haymaker with his brass-knuckled fist. The blow knocked the other man off of his feet, and Lynns took the opportunity to move away for a few quick breaths. It was also a prime chance to analyze his opponent.

He was imposing, to say the least. The suit covering his body was a dark gray, highlighted by jet black gloves, boots, and lines on the arms and legs. The muscular tone was almost inhuman; whoever was wearing it must have dedicated their whole lives to training for this sort of thing.

The man wore a cape, also black, that stretched down to his knees. Lynns would have considered that a bulky weakness, but he had seen his opponent move quickly enough to know they were too agile to let that slow them down. Over their face was a tight cowl, with two pointed "ears" of sorts on the sides and pointing straight up. Possibly the most intimidating parts of him, however, were his eyes and his chest.

His eyes were pure white, possibly even glowing; it was hard to tell in that split moment. But the chest was clear as day. On it was a black emblem of a bat, wings spread wide. If this man wasn't trying to kill him, the Commissioner might have thought it an amusing Halloween costume. But tonight it was a symbol of pure terror.

The burly old Commissioner took his chance and dived for the shotgun. It was his only hope, as far as his addled mind could tell. He landed belly-first on the floor, too startled for any sort of grace as he snatched up the double-barreled piece of salvation in his hands. He flipped around to aim, and was met by a piece of rapidly spinning metal that embedded itself in his right hand; he yanked away mere centimeters from pressing the trigger as he gaped at the wound. The piece of metal stuck inside of him was shaped like a bat as well.

He was unable to register what had happened in quick enough of a time to stop the man in the bat costume. His assailant had already hopped back up to his feet and towered over him. With a rough yank, he took grip of the Commissioner's throat and lifted him up. He was greeted at the top of his arc by a fist to the face, sending the freshly bloodied face of Lynns into a meticulously painted portrait of his father on the far wall.

The frame of the art snapped in to, possibly with the old cop's skull as his face dragged down from the wall to the floor. He barely managed to struggle to his feet before the man was there, spinning him to face his way so a punch to the gut could be delivered. The old Commissioner coughed and hacked, desperately gasping for breath as the monster before him used his elbow as leverage to pin his hostage against the wall by the throat. Finally, the attacker decided to speak.

"Lynns," he announced in a growling, booming tone. "You're going to tell me everything you know about the stolen Waynetech."

"I-I d-don't know what you're t-t-talking about!" Lynns panted back. He was answered in turn by a slap to his face.

"Liar!" the man in the bat costume shouted at him. "You had military-grade technology placed under your care, and now it's in the streets! Tell me what happened to it, or I swear I will break more bones of yours in the next five seconds than you've learned about in your entire life."

The Commissioner's eyes lit up, though it was impossible to tell if it was from realization or from welling tears. After a brief moment he choked on his own breath. "All right," he said. "I'll tell you everythi—i-ah,ahhhh…"

He trailed off as his normally strong voice shrank further into absolute terror. The masked man's eyes tried to follow his, and saw that he was staring at the door.

"A pity."

_Boom._

An eruption of flame and shrapnel decimated the room, and the cloaked man was sent hurtling into a corner, crashing into a freshly destroyed lamp and was buried by an avalanche of books from a toppled shelf.

The Commissioner was not as lucky. He remained where he had been propped up, now slumped down to the floor. Shrapnel all across his torso opened valves into his veins, which dutifully pumped out his lifeblood onto the matching red carpet. Lightning flashed once more, and his rapidly dulling eyes looked at the new arrival with despair more absolute than he could have known he felt.

Before him stood a thin figure, but tall, and broad-shouldered. His entire body was covered in a metallic suit, reddish-bronze in color. Black boots, gloves, and a symmetrical line pattern on his chest accented the color. In the middle of his chest sat an emblem of a black inferno, in the middle of which rested a simple, hexagonal bug pattern. The bottom half of his face sported a gas mask, on top of which sat a pair of ruby-red goggles encasing his eyes and most of the front of his face. Nothing restricted his wildly tossed and spiked brown hair on top.

The most striking aspect was the massive contraption on his back. Nearly the size of his torso, it appeared to be a set of beetle's wings, currently folded up. But from it came a pair of tubes, each connecting to a pair of spouts on the man's wrists.

"I'd really thought I could trust you, old man." said the newcomer. He raised a single wrist, the spouts aimed directly at the Commissioner's face.

"P-please…" choked the old man, the life draining from his face. "I did everything for you…"

"Yeah." replied the other. "You did. Thanks."

Beneath the rumble of thunder, a _click _could barely be made out before an eruption of flame engulfed the entire wall, burning the Commissioner and his possessions to ash and embers. A final, departing wail of agony was all that Lynns left; it served its purpose, as the corner of the room exploded, the bat-like figure charging the other with wild abandon. He swung with his right fist, but the smaller combatant ducked away before letting loose a jet of flame. The cape's use finally became clear, as the larger fighter wrapped it around himself, the flame passing harmlessly over.

"Impressive." the bronze-colored man said as he watched his opponent emerged from his blaze unharmed. "I might enjoy burning you. What do they call you?"

In response, he looked at the burning flesh of the Commissioner. He reached into the dark yellow belt in his pocket, coming up with two things. The first was a pellet; he tossed it at the flames, a sudden burst of white smoke engulfing, and choking them out. The second was a metal projectile, in the shape of a bat.

Before the other could take the moment to recognize what it was, it was already buzzing through the air, and cut through the tubing above his left wrist before embedding itself in the wall.

"I am _vengeance._" said the man. He aimed his wrist at the last remaining lamp in the room. With a thwik, a dart shot out the light, engulfing them in darkness.

"I am the _night_." spoke the man. A flurry of punches from all directions rocked the bronze-suited man, pushing him into a wall before a fist grabbed hold of his tuft of brown hair. He used it as an effective handle as he slammed his foe's face into the charred wall, again and again. For nearly forty seconds this continued, before finally he tossed the smaller man to the center of the room, where a small glint of light came down from the lightning above. The man in the bronze suit could clearly see the pure white eyes of his foe glaring down at him from there.

"I. AM. BATMAN."

A clap of thunder accented the end of his introduction, leaving them in silence. Then, after a moment, a low chuckle came from the man on the floor.

"Very interesting." a volcanic blast of flame lit the room as the bronze-suited man stood back on his feet, his fire making lamps out of everything flammable.

"You can call me Firefly." he declared, as the storm whipped itself into a frenzy in response to his flames.

"Now BURN."


	10. Chapter 10

The old parlor of the late Commissioner Lynns erupted in crimson flames, as Firefly's assault burned everything within reach to cinders. Batman rolled back to escape the encroaching fire, its extent licking his exposed jaw. He reached down to his belt, flicking open of its compartments and retrieving a handful of the pellets he had demonstrated earlier. A flick of his wrist scattered the little balls, bursting with white smoke within the flames and extinguishing them.

"Not bad, Batman." called Firefly from within the shrouded parlor. Under his breathing mask and goggles, he had little to fear from smoke. "Not bad at all. But I think you'll find this suit more than a match for a couple of Fourth of July goodies."

A hissing noise came from within the smoke, then a roaring as the wisps dispersed. Firefly roared out of the parlor as the pack strapped to his back propelled him like a rocket. Shoulder-first, the jet-propelled villain slammed into Batman and knocked him through several walls before he finally let down on the speed. The Bat crashed down into the spacious living room, several newly-cracked ribs to keep him company.

Firefly took a quick survey of the living room. It was tentatively decorated, white walls and rich brown furniture accented by fluffy white rugs. Selectively placed around the room were photos of the Commissioner, his wife, and their son.

"He was clinging to his memories, Batman." Firefly told the caped vigilante at his feet, delivering a swift kick to the ribs as he passed.

"And now," he continued. "he's a memory too. It's a little sad, isn't it? So caught up in his past, in his own mistakes, he never thought to try and make them right. And over time they built up, and up, and up, until there were so many, and they all came flooding back at him. And he was crushed under their weight."

Firefly reached into a compartment in the belt of his suit, retrieving a bright red lighter. He flicked it on, and stared at the flame. Behind him, Batman lifted himself back up to his feet, a bit wobbly at first; but the villain paid him no heed, he was transfixed by the little flame.

"Fire is many things, Batman." he said. "It is a force of destruction, burning everything in its path. Wilderness, property, lives, families, memories…"

Batman gave no response to his speech, instead opting to retrieve a grapnel gun from his belt. The rope and hook shot from the barrel, wrapping around Firefly's wrist and yanking him around. The Bat took a stride forward and threw a vicious uppercut into Firefly's jaw, nearly lifting him into the air as it threw him back into an old grandfather clock. His lighter dropped to the floor, its flickering blaze catching a piece of the highly flammable rug. A little fire burst into light, catching the murderer's eyes as he ducked away from a second punch from Batman. His fist slammed into the clock, shattering it and casting splinters and shards of glass all across the room.

"But fire can do more than destroy," Firefly insisted as he backed away from his more physically imposing opponent. "it is a cleanser. The world is scarred, broken. Vestigial. But fire wipes away everything."

He lifted the arm that still held an intact flamethrower, a fresh bombardment of flame pluming out at Batman. The Dark Knight was too fast to be hit by the flames, and he instead rolled away. The flames engulfed the side of the room by the window, glass windows melting as the fires licked the outside world. The room was cast into an ever-changing array of light and shadow as the flames danced. From this moment of confusion, Firefly lost sight of the Dark Knight in all of the chaos. He scanned the room, his head rotating in all directions as he sought a target.

"All we have to do is burn, Batman. Burn this world to the ground; and then, then we build anew."

"Fascinating." replied a voice. The villain's eyes shot open with shock, invisible though they were underneath his mask. The voice was above him.

A fist enrobed in a black glove cracked on impact with Firefly's face. Blood pooled at a rapid pace inside of it as the bug thrashed in pain on the floor. Batman dropped down from the ceiling, his figure looming over the pathetic wreck on the floor.

"Tell me, in this charred world of yours, who would build? You? All you can do is destroy." Batman's eyes narrowed as he surveyed the inured villain attempting to regain his senses. "Your plan could never succeed; no one willing and able to rebuild would see through your plan of destruction. Give up."

A faint sound picked up, barely audible over the crackling flames, but rapidly gaining in volume. Police sirens were quickly blaring toward Commissioner's home. A light laugh, as if a particularly scrawny being was attempting a cackle, came from Firefly as he supported himself on a wall. "On the contrary," he said as he got to his feet. "I'm thinking it's about time the crazed Bat-arsonist turned himself in to the police. Don't worry about me, though. I've got a show to plan for tomorrow."

Firefly's rocket pack roared to life again, as he shot through the flames and out the open window. Batman raced after him, kicking down the front door to find himself face to face with a blockade of police cars, at the head of which was Lieutenant James Gordon.

"Attention, giant… bat… freak!" Gordon shouted into a megaphone, pistol pointed, while desperately trying to understand what in the world he was looking at. "You are hereby placed under arrests for seventeen counts of arson, eight counts of breaking and entering, and two counts of murder!"

The upper floor of the house exploded, flaming debris littering the streets.

"_Three _counts of murder." Gordon corrected himself.

Batman took a moment to survey the dozen or so officers trained on him. Underneath his cape, he fished out a small button, which he pressed before retrieving the grapnel gun from his belt.

"Sorry, Jim." the figure replied. "I can't do that right now."

The officer next to Gordon fired his handgun at the bat man, only to find it unresponsive. He pulled the trigger three more times, each time meeting with an empty clicking noise. The other officers, Jim included, attempted to fire their own weapons; they met similar results. "Jammed!" Jim shouted in disbelief. He attempted to run up to the masked man to apprehend him personally, but by that time the grapnel gun had already secured itself on a rooftop, and the criminal was soaring through the air.

"How in the world did he—"

"Sir!" an officer shouted, interrupting the Lieutenant. "What should we do about this Bat guy?"

"Send a message to every officer in the city." Jim ordered him. "We're putting everyone on high alert; I want this guy cuffed and in a cell by morning."

The other cop nodded and dashed off to his squad car. Gordon leaned back onto the side of his own car, staring up at the wreckage of the Commissioner's house in a daze. He reached into his shirt pocket, pulling out a fat cigar. He placed the tip in a bit of burning wreckage by his foot, and took a puff of it as the rain started up again.


	11. Chapter 11

An odd assortment of birds chirped and tweeted outside of Barbara Gordon's window as the sunlight first began to creep inside her room. She hadn't slept that night. Around midnight, her father received a call on the phone before dashing out of the house. He didn't say why, but he looked extremely worried as the door swung open and shut with his passage. She had waited all night for him to return, but had received no news. As the minutes ticked closer to the start of school, a knock on her door picked her up out of her daze.

She rushed to her door, tripping over a pile of textbooks as she went, to greet her father. But as she twisted the knob and pulled, she couldn't help but be a little disappointed to see her mother. Her face was pale, almost a bit sickly. Beyond that though, most people could be forgiven for mistaking her and Barbara for the same woman. She looked a bit worried, and her bright red hair was rather disheveled. The bags under her eyes hinted that she hadn't slept.

"Barbara, dear, it's almost time for school. Are you all ready?"

"Yeah, mom." Barbara told her mother as she scrounged up a few books and shoved them in her bag.

The two walked downstairs, not even glancing at the empty kitchen; Barbara's father was always the one to make breakfast. Mrs. Gordon took Barbara and her little brother out to the spare car, to deliver them to school herself in the absence of her husband.

The ride to Gotham High was silent. All of them knew what the others were thinking, however. On overnight cases it was commonplace to get a call from Jim letting them know that he would be "a few minutes late". The phone never rang that night. They knew that whatever was happening it was something important enough that he had no time to contact them. They refused to think of a situation more dire than that.

The old car sputtered up to Gotham High, the front mysteriously lacking students. Barbara looked around, expecting to see Bruce waiting for her by the steps. Or at the very least Eddie creeping around, waiting for her. But not a soul populated the exterior of the stately old building. She looked at her mother, who gave a very sad smile and kissed her on the cheek before gently motioning her out of the car. Her mother blew her another kiss as the jalopy backed out and drove away.

With a deep breath, the girl turned and marched toward Gotham High's front door. Something odd was going on, and she was curious. Perhaps a bit nervous, too. Something seemed wrong, today. She ascended the steps, noting how convenient they were when she didn't have to weave through a crowd to use them. When she finally got to the door, she peered through to see the inside nearly as barren, save for a single individual plodding through the hall. The scrawny kid with red hair and thick glasses. Unmistakable.

"Eddie!" Barbara shouted as she shoved the door open, doubling her pace to keep him from losing her. The effort was unnecessary, as he stopped in place and waited for her like a faithful dog as soon as he heard her voice.

"Hey, Babs!" he shouted in his excitement. Barbara considered punching him for the nickname. He seemed so happy, though, she couldn't bring herself to do it. "Is there something you need assistance with?"

"Yeah, actually, there is." Barbara responded, looking around at the starkly empty hallway. "Is… anybody here today?"

Eddie pondered this for a moment. It was as if he'd just noticed the utter lack of other people on this morning. Barbara questioned if he noticed them on other days, either. He scratched his head, thinking on it for a moment before finally snapping his fingers, giving a little "oh!" in realization.

"There's an assembly!" he said. "In the auditorium!"

"Assembly?" Barbara asked. "There wasn't anything in the announcements yesterday about that…"

"Yes, I suppose it's kind of a last-minute sort of deal." Eddie explained. "Best as I can tell, Oswald had his dad pull some strings to call it. But even he doesn't really know what it's about."

Barbara almost let her jaw drop open in confusion. "How does that make any sense?" She asked. "Why would he call an assembly and not know what the assembly is about?"

"You've got me there, Babs. But you know, it's a real mystery isn't it…"

Eddie leaned against a locker, his face scrunched into a sleuthing look. Barbara decided to leave him there and let him go on his fantasy trip while she rushed to the auditorium. She burst through the red-tinted doors to find the entire student body packed into hundreds of rows of seats. A cacophony of voices filled the air as students bickered and chattered. Barbara attempted to find a seat, and noticed an arm beckoning to her from down the aisle. She recognized Bruce, and shimmied her way past a dozen people before sitting down in an empty seat next to him. He gave her a quick smile and said hello.

"How did you manage to keep an empty seat with this many people?" she asked. All he did in response was show her the seal on his wallet. She wasn't sure whether to groan or chuckle, and ultimately decided on neither. The conversation was dying down as lights began to dim. Still, a pair in front of her were gossiping about something audibly, so she took a moment to listen in.

"…I'm telling you, man, it's all over the news! That crazy bat-guy broke into the Commisioner's house, murdered him in cold blood!"

"You're crazy, bro; nobody up and kills the police commissioner. Do you know how many mob contacts a dude like that's got?"

"Oh, like you'd know a damn thing about the mob. Stop trying to sound like you know more than you do, man!"

The two continued to bicker about subjects that didn't particularly interest her. But she was still enthralled by what they had said. The Commissioner was dead? That would explain why her dad had never come home. She wondered if her mom knew. She wondered if her dad was hurt. The fresh influx of information disabled her for a moment as she became anxious, wondering whether the killer was out for her father as well. A shoulder tapped her on the shoulder. She looked up at Bruce, who had a worried expression tugging on his face.

"Are you all right? You look like something upset you."

She tenderly prodded the corner of an eye, and felt a tear roll down her fingertip. She jumped a bit, unaware that she had reacted so strongly to mere speculation. She lowered her head so Bruce couldn't make eye contact with her. Right on cue, the lights finally shut off, and a single spotlight shone on the stage.

Oswald Cobblepot waddled out onto the stage, accompanied by his brute of a companion. He lifted himself up onto a podium and cleared his throat. Barbara had difficulty making out his face from this far, but something seemed off about him. He seemed very sweaty, even more so than would be expected. She glanced over at Bruce, expecting him to be more observant on the matter than her. He confirmed her suspicions, glaring intently at the fat little man. Before she could say anything, Oswald began speaking in his strange voice.

"Students of Gotham High! Terror is sweeping our brave city!" he began. Though she could not tell what, there was definitely something eating at him. His voice seemed squeaky, as if he were about to faint from pressure. She didn't know a lot about him, but Barbara knew enough to know that Oswald had no trouble speaking in front of a crowd. Something was wrong.

"E-even now, police are sweeping our streets, searching for this man!"

A projector from the back of the room lit up, dust propelled from its vents as if it were waking from a winter's hibernation. A grainy image displayed itself behind Cobblepot, causing more than a few gasps, and the occasional shriek from the more hysterical members of the audience. The image showed a house, completely going up in flames. The police were at the front, weapons trained on a figure that most of the students barely understood. He was dressed in gray and black, a cowl over his head and a cape flowing behind him as he faced down the GCPD. On his chest was a symbol, plain as day—or in the case, perhaps the night—of a bat.

"This creature, this Batman, as he is being called," Cobblepot continued. "is the terror responsible for the death of Police Commissioner Lynns, the father of one of our very own students!"

On cue, the student body booed. They may have been monsters in their own way, but only a few of them ever actually wanted anyone _dead_. They were appalled that someone could dare to take another person's father from them, most of them thinking of their own dads as they jeered.

"Now!" Cobblepot said, the sweat pouring down his forehead. Whatever was happening, it was going to happen in the next moment. To Barbara's side, Bruce stood and began to inch away. She looked up at him in confusion.

"Where are you going?" she hissed at him. But when she looked at his face, the hairs on the back of her neck stood. He was staring at the stage in what almost looked like horror. She was fairly certain she understood that look now; he had just realized something awful.

"Barbara, come on." He said, tugging at her arm. "We have to get out of here, now."

"Bruce, what are you talking about?"

"We have a guest speaker at today's assembly." Oswald announced. "Please, help me in honoring our dear friend Mr. Garfield Lynns, son of the late Commissioner, who would like to share a few words in memory of his father."

A raucous frenzy of cheers came through the auditorium as the student body attempted to encourage their peer. They respected any man brave enough to speak up about such a heinous crime. But ten seconds passed, and they finally noticed: he hadn't walked on stage. The cheering died out, as people began to whisper among themselves, questioning where their mourning classmate had gone off to. Oswald began to nervously shuffle off stage, leaving a dripping puddle of sweat behind him as he ran. Over the din, nothing could be heard save a small noise that Barbara couldn't quite make out.

It almost sounded like a hissing noise.

Bruce grabbed her by the waist, no longer willing to waste time. He flung her over his shoulder and dashed for the exit. Heads turned to stare at them, but they were unable to question them. In the next moment, the show began.

The ceiling above them burst, red flames tearing away the construction like tissue paper. Shrapnel volleys ejected into the room, tearing up the seats and gashing students as they dove for cover. Barbara curled up, expecting the searing pain to hit her as well, but it did not. She peeked from one eye, and saw Bruce leaning over her. Blood was dripping from his side.

"Oh my god, Bruce, what's happening?" she screamed. Before he could respond to her, another explosion rocked the auditorium. Support beams began to crash down from above, one of them coming right for the pair. Bruce pushed her toward the exit, diving back to avoid the burning pillar as it collided with the ground where he occupied a moment ago.

"Barbara, run!" he shouted. "Get the police! The arsonist is here!"

Her heart nearly stopped, as if it weren't in danger of that already. The thought of the Batman attacking the school made her blood run cold. She attempted to find a way back to Bruce, but the smoke was already beginning to fill the auditorium, and that and the flames restricted her view. He was lost in there, somewhere. It looked like most of the students were already pouring through the exit. She attempted to squeeze through them, but she was cut off. She was surrounded by hundreds of kids all trying to fight their way through the small exits, and she was by no means the kind of powerhouse it took to win that fight. As she struggled to slip through, a hand tugged on her shoulder. Barbara noticed it was the greasy-haired kid from her Biology class. He was grinning at her in a way that was somehow creepier than normal.

"Hey, Babs, looks like you're havin' a little trouble there!" he said with a chuckle.

"Get the hell away from me, idiot!" she shouted. "The school is burning down, so unless you know a faster way out leave me alone!"

"Ah," he said with a devious smile accenting his words. "the thing is, I DO know a way out. One that won't get you trampled by the track team. But, I guess you're MUCH too busy to accompany me, so I'll be off I suppose…"

She cursed to herself for having to be around this sleazy goofball, but she waved him back as he began to leave.

"I'm not dumb enough to get myself killed if I don't have to. Show me where to go."

"Ooh-hoo, YAY!" the grease-hair exclaimed, leaping into the air in joy. "I was afraid I was going to have to go through these creepy burning hallways all by myself! Come on, new best friend, let's go have ourselves an ADVENTURE!"

Before Barbara could protest, her companion wrapped his arm tightly around her neck and dragged her off to a little side entrance that the other seemed to be ignoring. He kicked the door open, blatantly ignoring the fact that it was unlocked, and threw Barbara threw. "Hurry," he said, "before anyone else—"

"WAIT!" came a timid little voice from behind them. The greasy-haired kid dragged a hand down in his face in utter disgust, while Barbara nearly jumped for joy of hearing a familiar voice. Eddie Nashton dashed through the door with them.

"Oh, thank goodness!" he said. "It's like a fiery nightmare in there! I suppose you, my companions, have found an alternate exit?"

"Yeah, yeah." the greasy kid said with a suddenly low, growling voice. "Tell ya what, if you can keep your big-word-usin' mouth shut for the whole trip, I might even show it to you."

He reached into the pockets of his purple jacket and produced two halves of a thin, rod-like cane, twisting them together before snapping it against Barbara and Eddie's behinds, whipping them down the hall. "Come on, kiddos, we've got a long haul before sunset!"

The trio took off at a run down the hall, deeper into the school as smoke and flame began to pour in the door behind them…


	12. Chapter 12

Red and yellow flames licked their way through the entire auditorium. Bruce coughed and stumbled, nearly prostrating himself on a row of chairs he had stumbled into before catching himself. He could hardly see, but his mind was already working like a machine.

_Think, Bruce, think. _It thought. _You've learned the layout, you've studied the schematics. Up on the stage… there's three exits behind the curtain. One of them leads out into the hallway. Nothing flammable there. It should be safe for a moment._

He redirected himself, based on the chairs, to what seemed to be the front of the auditorium. Then, with all the speed he could muster Bruce ran down the aisle. A beam cracked under the strain of flame and rubble and fell to Bruce's right. Bits of shrapnel scratched his side; he ignored it. Now wasn't the time to take stock of cuts and bruises. It wasn't a long run before he reached the raised stage, and with a single dashing leap threw himself up onto it. Unfortunately, the smoke had already begun to choke this place in its entirety. Bruce fell flat to his stomach and tore a piece of his shirt off, using it as a bit of breathing cloth. It wasn't much, but maybe it would keep him conscious.

He crawled forward, inching his way past roaring flames and crackling kindle to the back of the stage. He dragged himself behind the curtain, and through a door, down a flight of stairs, and into a linoleum hallway. He stood up and examined his surroundings. This was the hallway directly behind the auditorium; the band room and the library were both located here. He picked the band room. The library was a better hiding spot, but far easier to burn down if any arsonists happened to catch him there. He would only be here for a moment anyway. He just needed to change.

He went into the band room and walked past the piles of instruments. Fire alarms blared in his ear as he threw open the storage closet. Dozens of cases fell out, including one gray case near the back, with his family's crest on it. He reached for it, took it out of the closet, and carefully set it aside as he went for his real goal. A beat-up, unassuming trumpet case hiding in the corner with a mysteriously complex lock on it. He placed it on the floor and entered the code as quickly as it could. With the emergencies it was used for, that was about three seconds for him.

He flipped open the scratched black case, and reached inside. One of his many suits, with any and all general-purpose gadgets to quickly solve a situation were now at his disposal. He timed himself based on the three-second intervals between the alarm's rings. It took approximately a minute and a half before the Batsuit was on. A twinge of anger in his mind. Alfred had said it was a stupid name. What on earth else was he supposed to call it? It was bat-themed and a suit, so naturally it would be—

A boom in the distance reminded him of his current mandate. Now was not the time to be distracted by petty grievances against his butler. With a snap, the clasps on his shoulders secured his cape into place. He buckled the belt, dozens of pockets and pouches and capsules filled with whatever he would need to counter the assault on Gotham High. He was certain of it; only one man could be behind the attacks.

The door to the band room crashed back open as Batman, not Bruce Wayne, exited, a breathing mask secured tightly to his face. "Time to crash and burn, Firefly." the Dark Knight said with a cheesy grin that was thankfully hidden. He threw himself out of the hallway as fast as his legs would run. The fire department would handle the collateral; he was going after a man.

"BLUGH!"

The greasy-haired boy doubled over, ready to hack out a lung. Barbara and Eddie moved closer, but he pushed them away with his left hand, and appeared to be gripping his throat with his right. "No, stay away! I'm fine. I just—whoo! I need a sec."

He threw himself against a wall and slid to the floor, panting as he took in what little free air he could. Eddie did the same, but Barbara remained standing, staring at them in disbelief. "The school is _burning down!" _she stressed. "And here you are, taking a break! Do you even know where we're going anymore?"

The boy held up a hand to stop her. "Slow down, toots, I know exactly where we're headin'. So just clam up already; not my fault I'm not some track star." He stood back up with a grunt that was almost certainly forced and began walking again. Eddie followed behind him. They were in one of the upper hallways at the moment. As the school burned, they found the lower areas too packed with fleeing students to move around. So, the greasy-haired one had led his two followers upstairs to get around the crowd. They passed the freshman hall, spotting the stairwell only a short walk down.

"So, you never told us your name." Eddie mentioned as they moved. "What is it, anyway?"

"Name's not important, kid." The boy told him. After a second of mulling it over, though, he shrugged. "If you're gonna call me SOMETHIN' then I guess J will do just fine."

"Er, all right, 'J'." Eddie said, visibly unused to a name like that. Barbara, on the other hand, looked astounded.

"Do either of you honestly think this is the best time for small talk?" Barbara chided. "You're wasting oxygen!"

"And you're not, Babs?" J asked casually. Barbara's right eye twitched behind her glasses frames, and a vein bulged above her eyebrow. But she restrained herself, to ensure her actions would not result in the gruesome death of their best hope out.

They marched on a little further, coming up to the stairwell. It was at the intersection of two hallways. Various posters from the freshman were hung on boards dotting the walls. Absolutely none of them had any visible effort put in, from Barbara's observation.

"All right," J told them. "we're gonna go down two levels to the ground floor, and from then on it's smoooooth sailin' out the—uh oh."

"Uh oh?" Eddie and Barbara asked in unison. They looked at J, to see his face looking admittedly rather terrified, and staring down the other hall. Against their judgment, their eyes followed his, and took in the imagine of a man in a bronze-colored, winged suit, a fist outstretched towards them.

"Hello, Barbara." the man said in a cold voice. This time it was J and Eddie who stared at Barbara. The short little boy in green looked ready to ask a question, but Barbara cut him off fast as she scowled at whoever was behind that mask.

"Never seen the guy in my life."

"Oh, forgotten me that easily, have we?" the suited man asked. "Well, it's all for the best, in your case. Losing your memory of me only leaves you with less to have burned away."

Firefly clenched his fist. _CHINK! _The metallic ping coincided with a hook strapping itself around a gap in the arsonist's suit. He looked down at it, seemingly dumbfounded, and followed the wire to the figure hunched over the railing on the stairwell.

The trio of schoolkids gasped in horror as they realized who they were staring at. Eddie's teeth chattered as he squeaked out "I-is that Batman?"

J looked down at Eddie with an expression that no one present could quite place. His eyelids were half closed, as if lazed, and yet they burned with an intense hatred. He bit his lip as if to suppress the vocal onslaught he had prepared. Sadly, he failed, and grabbed Eddie by his copious amounts of red hair, turning the poor boy's face to be opposite his as he shouted. "Are you DENSE? Are you RETARDED or something? Who do you think that is? Of _COURSE _it's the damned Batman, now run!"

J turned, ready to sprint back down the way he came, but was met by a new wall of fire to keep him company. Firefly wagged a finger at him. "Oh no no no." He informed the greasy-haired boy. "I'm not done with you yet."

A tug on the wire reminded the villain who held the real power at the moment. "You know," Batman snarled at him. "I could say the same to you." The Dark Knight leaned back, flinging himself down the stairwell and retracting the grappling hook at the same time. Firefly tried to resist, only managing to fire off explosive bursts of flames as he was dragged down the abyss with the Bat. He was not fortunate enough to avoid slamming his hip into the railing before toppling over it, shouting in dumbfounded shock.

The flames he launched were less comical, hitting the ceiling and causing the beams and supports to crack under stress. Half of the area above the three students came crashing down, creating a barrier. On the one side stood J and Eddie, and on the other Barbara was left by the stairwell.

"Babs, are you all right?" Eddie shouted, panicking.

"I'm fine, just calm down!" She assured him.

"All right, all right!" He responded. "Okay, um, J and I are going to circumvent this obstruction and meet you downstairs, all right?"

"You mean you're leaving me with the murderer and the crazy fire man?" Barbara asked, bewildered and ready to break down from the insanity of it all. But she got no reply. Eddie and J were already gone. She tried to shout a few obscenities at them, but a freshly collapsed beam only let her get out a squeal of fear as she began to move down the stairwell. At the moment, it seemed slightly safer to be around two maniacs than a burning building. But only slightly.

As she hurried down the steps, she could make out grunts coming from below her. Batman and… whoever that freak was were duking it out below her. The fwooshing noise of a flamethrower occasionally accented the general thuds and grunts. As she reached the end of the first flight, her curiosity took hold, and she tried to peek over the railing to see what was going on.

"EEP!" she screamed, throwing herself back against the wall as a pillar of fire flashed up from below. Her heart pounded against her ribcage, ready to make a break for it as she tried to listen to what was happening below. The sounds from the two were getting distant; they were moving away. Barbara felt that this was the best time to move, and continued her descent. Sure enough, as she reached the bottom no costumed men were in sight; only the copious scorch marks from the fires were visible. She walked out of the stairwell and found the area to her right cut off by crackling support beams. "Figures." she muttered. That was the closest exit.

She moved left, and found herself in her own hallway. It was quite some distance, but the little corner she had passed through just that morning was directly ahead. She began to move, keeping an ear out for either of the maniacs duking it out. She passed by her science lab.

clink-clink-clink

She gasped and looked back behind her. No one was there. She sighed in relief, and turned back around.

"Did you miss me?"

"Oh, SHI—" Barbara was cut off as Firefly grabbed her by the shirt and threw her against a locker. She felt the metal dent, but was preoccupied by her shoulder dislocating. She tried to grit her teeth, but couldn't help but scream as her cheeks were stained by falling tears. Firefly clicked his teeth in disapproval.

"Now, now, Barbara, there's no need for tears. It's not _nearly _enough water to put out the flames I'm about to place there."

Barbara felt a cold chill go down her spine, impossible to miss considering how hot the rest of her body felt at the moment. "Please!" she shouted. "Don't hurt me! I don't even know you, what do you want?"

Before Firefly could respond, a metallic ting in the air heralded a tiny metal bat driving itself into an open spot under the arsonist's shoulder. The armor didn't reach there. He hissed in pain and backed away, letting Barbara drop into a huddle on the floor as Batman walked into sight. Or, limped was the more appropriate word. His suit was ripped in multiple areas, and the flesh underneath was scorched. Sweat poured down every bit of open skin, and at the moment he clutched his left arm; it appeared to be broken.

Now that she had a moment to properly examine him, the other one seemed worse for wear as well. One of his goggle lenses was cracked, and his forehead had a deep laceration across it. His armor was dented in multiple places, and scratched from sharp blades. She could hardly believe what she was looking at; how were either of these two still standing, let alone fighting?

"So you haven't told her yet, Firefly?" the one she knew was Batman growled. She made the assumption that this "Firefly" was the man in the bronze armor. "Drop the act, it's time that you told your victim the whole story for once, Firefly."

Batman sounded a little too pleased with himself as he spoke his next phrase. "Or should I say Garfield?"

Barbara looked over at Firefly in shock, and in response the villain had torn away his goggles. It was now very recognizably his face underneath the mask, though incredibly torn up from the fight. "B-but… what?" was all she could get out. None of what was happening was processing in her mind correctly. None of it made sense.

"What does it matter who I am?" Garfield—or Firefly, Barbara supposed—asked. "I am only here to represent an ideal; the cleansing fire with which we shall remake the earth into a better tomorr—"

"Shut it, Lynns!" Batman shouted back at him, shutting him out. "If your identity wasn't important, you wouldn't be picking out individual victims, would you? Gordon's kid, I understand. You wanted revenge on your family's biggest rival, the know it all brat whose daddy was going to inherit the position of yours. Of course, none of that would have happened if you hadn't murdered your own father!"

Barbara felt a weight drop in her gut as the horror of what she heard sunk in. "You mean it w-wasn't… you?" Barbara asked the Bat. He did not respond, keeping his gaze focused on Firefly.

"My father was an idiot." Garfield bluntly informed the others. "He was corrupt, and a plague on Gotham. But I would sooner die than let a man as incompetent as Gordon take the position. Or anyone else, for that matter. The entire system is broken. We need to tear it down, rebuild! The plan is beautiful!"

"The plan is flawed, Garfield." Batman told him. "That's your problem. No patience." He took a step past Barbara and towards Firefly, who stepped back accordingly. "You had effectively framed me for the murder of two criminals, but you slipped up by using a camera whose origins were easy to trace. Your father kept a warehouse full of them on government payroll, and distributed them to gangs or anyone else who paid. That pinned your father as a prime suspect; but you couldn't wait it out, you had to kill him yourself. Even when you successfully managed to frame me for _that, _you still felt the need to attack the school."

"Shut up!" Firefly hissed, bringing up his flamethrower. Another metallic bat shoved itself into his arm, cutting off the tubes of gas so precious to the machinery's workings.

"That is why you failed." Batman continued. "You acted before knowing the consequences of what you'd done before. It all piled up, and made you pathetically easy to predict. Now, here we are. You're cornered, Garfield. Look out there."

Firefly looked, only for a moment. Outside those glass doors the red and blue lights of police cruisers was clearly visible. "The GPD are here, Garfield; this time, they'll be after the right man."

Firefly turned and ran towards the door. Where he planned to go from there was a mystery, but not one that would ever be solved. Batman rushed past Barbara, chasing down the smaller man and tackling him. The two rolled to the ground, allowing Batman to deliver a swift, final punch to Firefly's skull. He impacted with the floor nose-first, and crunched it on the linoleum. A faint sigh escaped his lips, and Firefly fell unconscious.

Barbara got up, nursing her wound as she approached Batman. He was crouched over Firefly's body, restraining him with a pair of zip cuffs. She took a step towards him, but retracted as he turned to look at her. His blank white eyes were unnerving, but something seemed odd about his expression. He was trying to form a snarl, or some kind of glare. But he couldn't quite manage it. Barbara noted this, and managed to stutter out a question.

"W-why… why did you stop him? Are you a criminal or not?"

Batman stared at her for a few moments in complete silence. He finished applying the zipcuffs and stood. She saw a slight wobble in his motions. "I break the law." he told her. The growl from before was lessened. That voice was forced; try as she might, though, she couldn't quite pinpoint the familiarity of his voice underneath the gravel that remained. Batman turned his gaze down to Firefly, and pulled him up by the collar.

"But I'm nothing like him."

Barbara would have spoken more, but a sudden crash above them reminded them that the school was starting to come down. The ceiling began to crack, bits of debris landing on Miss Gordon's upturned face. "MOVE!" Batman shouted, and she felt a great weight impact her as the Dark Knight slammed himself into her, picking her up and sprinting down the hallway, falling debris behind them. Up ahead, the doors drew closer and closer; Barbara's dazed senses barely noticed the presence of two figures just beyond the doors. She felt a whirling as what was either her captor or savior spun, throwing his own body through the glass instead of hers.

The two of them, plus Firefly, went hurtling out into the daylight, and into two unsuspecting GPD officers. Five people were flung down the stairs into Gotham High's main entrance, only coming to a stop at the very bottom. Barbara felt the world spinning around her as she began to register the kind of pain you get when you fall down a flight of stairs with pre-existing injuries. Once she opened her eyes, her first sight was smoke pouring out the doors they had just passed through, and a team of firefighters trying to get in, pouring in thousands of gallons of water to snuff out the flames as they enveloped her school.

The next thing she noticed was the sound. Someone was shouting. "Freeze! Don't move! Put your hands in the air! You're under arrest! We got you, bastard!"

A cacophony of voices filled her ears, and she rolled over to see a swarm of police officers surrounding Batman. He was on his feet, but weak. He couldn't take this. At the head of the mob was none other than Lieutenant Jim Gordon, her father. But he looked different. His eyes were narrow, his warm-hearted smile replaced by an icy scowl, and his open arms now gripped a shotgun, which he used to bash the Batman over the head with. The vigilante stepped back, rocked by the blow, and tightened his fists. He prepared to throw a counter-attack, when Barbara screamed at them all. "STOP IT!"

Batman paused, and looked back at her in surprise. Gordon seized the opportunity to kick the Bat square in the gut and hurl him to the ground by Barbara. As he moved in closer, she threw herself in front of the battered man, and shielded him as nearly a dozen SWAT formed a semicircle around her with guns drawn. Jim nearly joined them, but hesitated; he finally noticed that it was his own daughter shielding the crazed killer. "Barbara!" he shouted, trying to sound angry. She didn't buy it; she knew him well enough to know that he felt hurt. "What are you doing? Don't you know what this man has done?"

"I read the stories, Dad." Barbara told him. She tried her best to keep up the defiance, but even now she was questioning herself. Why on earth should she risk her own health to protect a stranger?

Something clicked in her mind. On her first day of school, she had thought about all the things wrong in Gotham City. All the villains, the crooks, the liars. How there was no one good to counteract it. But all of a sudden, this Batman, whoever he was, came out of nowhere to save her and two other people he's never met. He was hurt badly in there; it would have been easier to run and save himself. He didn't. He helped her. He helped everyone. She wasn't sure, but maybe he _wasn't_ what the police thought he was. Maybe he wasn't a criminal at all. Maybe he was a hero?

Barbara felt something welling up in her chest as she felt the realization. She pointed at Garfield, and bluntly told her father "There's your killer." The other officers looked at him and gasped, muttering amongst themselves. Wasn't that the Commissioner's son?

"He was the one burning down the school." she told Lieutenant Gordon. "He would have killed me, but this guy, Batman—he saved my life. He hasn't done anything wrong, Daddy."

Jim's face was almost heartbroken when she said "Daddy". Good. She had hoped that would hit him hard; it might have been enough to even convince him. But instead of lowering his weapon, all Gordon did was sigh.

"Maybe that's true, Barbara, but this city has laws. Vigilantism is high up on the list. He's a criminal one way or the other. He's coming with us."

"You can't do that!" she screeched at him. "All he did was—huh?"

The police and Barbara turned to see that, in all the commotion, Batman had fished out a gray pellet from his belt. He dropped it to the ground, and in a puff he and the Lieutenant's daughter were enveloped in a smokescreen. Men began shouting as they tried to figure out what to do. A few aimed their weapons, only for Jim to smack them in the head; his daughter was in there, like hell he'd let them try that.

Barbara could hardly keep up with it all inside of the cloud, but once it had dissipated only she, her father, the police and Firefly remained. The Batman was gone. A few officers fanned out to search for them, but all Barbara saw was the silhouette of her father bearing down on her as fast as the human body could move. She felt herself sweat up into the air by her father's strong arms as he held her as close as he could. She heard an odd pattern of breathing coming from her dad this close. He was sobbing.

"Barbara, I'm so sorry."

"Dad, it's—"

"I was just so focused on catching this guy. I wanted… I wanted you and your brother to be safe."

"Dad, I forg—"

"I should've called, I shouldn't have left you worrying like that. And you ended up in so much danger even though—"

"DAD!" Barbara shouted. Jim stopped himself, a little shocked, and backed away enough to look her in the eye. She smiled and hugged him. "I forgive you, now shut up."

Jim smiled and hugged his daughter as tightly as he could. They were safe.

Late that night, the Gordon family sat together around the table and ate dinner. Roast turkey, mashed potatoes, cranberry sauce—since she had been through so much, Barbara had picked the meal. She had decided on Thanksgiving around three months early. She scarfed down all the cranberries she could get her hands on as her father regaled her little brother with the story of how The Batman defeated Firefly.

"Batman stared down the villain with his heroic gaze! But behind it sat a nervous mind; he was down to his last ice pellet, and Firefly could burn all day! How would he manage to squash this bug for good?"

James Gordon stared at his father with eyes as wide as saucers. They sparkled with childlike wonder, enthralled in Jim's story. Barbara chuckled to herself as she watched her little brother. It must have been nice to be so innocent, and just think of fights as people throwing outlandish gadgets at their enemies. She wondered how much it bothered her father to be telling James this story; Batman was a target for arrest, after all, and he was pretty unabashedly the hero of this silly little tale.

She didn't ponder on it long before the doorbell rang. Her mom began to get up to go answer it, but Barbara held up a hand to stop her. Mrs. Gordon smiled and nodded at her, and she walked to the door. She unbolted the doorway and opened it, to find Bruce Wayne standing on her porch. Her first reaction was to let her face fall into surprise and distress, seeing the condition her friend was in. He was covered in bruises, a few light burns were easily visible on his skin. Other ones were underneath bandages; and his entire arm was in a cast. Somehow he still managed to smile at her. "What happened to you?" was all she was able to say.

"I… had to take the long way out." Bruce joked; it didn't sit well with his friend, though, who noticed that he was probably telling the truth. He thought it over a moment, and went into detail. "It's nothing serious, I swear! The doctors say I'll be out of the cast in just a couple weeks, and Alfred's got some old family recipe for my burns; says I should look presentable again by the end of next week."

Barbara thought about berating him for not calling, or otherwise alerting their family. She'd told Jim what had happened the last time she saw Bruce, and they'd spent the whole afternoon worrying. In the end, though, all she felt she could do was carefully navigate around his broken arm and hug him. Bruce let this go on for no longer than a second before he questioned her. "Any particular reason you're feeling so hands-on?"

"It's an emotional day," Barbara informed him with a faux-bitter tone. "Everybody's hugging. Just deal with it." Bruce threw his working hand into the air, admitting defeat and accepting his gruesome fate. A few moments later Barbara finally let him go, only to grab his hand and tug him towards her door.

"You've gotta have dinner with us." She instructed the bewildered Bruce. "They'll all want to see you're OK."

"Thanks," Bruce told her, pulling away. "But I really need to get back home. Alfred's probably getting restless." He tried to walk away, only to get yanked back again by his fiery-headed friend. His expression sank as he saw the cheeky grin on her face.

"We can call him from here."

"You're really not letting this go, are you Barbara?" she shook her head "no" to affirm this fact. Bruce sighed, admitting defeat yet again and immediately perked up and grinned. "Come on then, let's get going."

Barbara threw her hands up in an exaggerated little cheer to herself and led Bruce inside, where her family was already waiting to greet him. He was ushered into their humble feast, where sat and talked and laughed as the night carried on. Several hours later, Alfred pulled up in an unassuming black car, walked up to the door, and went inside to join the Gordon Family plus one as they sat around the living room, reminiscing about the good times of the past and looking forward to the future.


End file.
